The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis Page 7

  “Thank you, thank you all,” I cried happily.

  As soon as they resumed their seats on the floor and returned to their debate, I embarked on Stage Four, which was to get Fat-Boy out of the way. I sat down beside him and nudged him awake. He looked at me with bleary, incurious eyes.

  “Do you like plum pudding?” I said.

  A flicker of interest danced across his face. He nodded his big head.

  “I’ve got a plum pudding up in my room,” I whispered to him. “It’s been there since last Christmas. Plum pudding gets better the longer it stands, did you know that?”

  His head went up and down again.

  “My plum pudding is juicy and rich and yummy.”

  He smacked his slack lips.

  “Would you like to have some?”

  His head nodded until his ears flapped.

  “Come with me,” I said.

  I took him up to my room. “It’s in the closet,” I said. “Go get it.”

  He went into the closet. I slammed the door behind him and turned the key. This time, by George, he wouldn’t get to the sugar bowl before I did!

  Now I was ready for Stage Five, which was to borrow ten dollars out of the bowl. I would wait until seven o’clock. By then, as I knew, the students would have left; the professor devoted his evenings to reading. Only this evening he was devoting to waiting for Ernest Hemingway. The house would be empty. All I would have to do was dash in, grab ten dollars—eleven, including my grandfather’s dollar—and dash out again. Then I would buy two tickets to the Freshman Prom, show them to Thalia, and everything would be well again. My plan, crazy as it was, had worked!

  Yet a couple of misgivings were in my mind as I approached the professor’s house at seven-fifteen. What if he had grown tired of waiting for Hemingway and come home? What if there were still some students in the room? Warily I tiptoed up to the front door. Inch by inch I opened it. I peered inside. Nobody was there. Not a sound could be heard. I heaved a great sigh of relief. I crossed the living room, walked up to the mantel, stuck my hand in the bowl. And it was empty.

  What did I do then? I can’t remember clearly. I think I grasped my lapels and ripped them off. I think I banged my head against the wall. I can’t, as I say, remember. All I know is that when I got home the lapels were off my coat and there were lumps on top of my head.

  I let Fat-Boy out of the closet. “That was a shoddy trick,” he complained and hit me in the eye, but I scarcely noticed it, so sunk in despond was I. He left and I flung myself on my cot, my face to the wall. There I lay in a black stupor. Nine o’clock came and went, but I did not phone Thalia. She was lost, lost forever now. There was no use trying any more.

  About ten o’clock I heard a voice calling my name outside my window. I groaned. The voice was Fannie Jordan’s. “Go away,” I said in a lackluster tone. “Go away.”

  “Come on out,” she called.

  “Go away,” I repeated.

  “Come on out or I’ll throw rocks at your window.”

  Having no doubt that she would, I dragged my depleted frame out of the house.

  “What do you want?” I said with dull anguish.

  Then I saw her. My eyes bulged in my head. Was this possible? Was the frump I knew the same girl who stood before me now? For the transformation was unbelievable. Her mop of black hair had been tamed into a chic feather bob. Her bushy eyebrows were graceful arches. Her lips were painted full and rosy. Her dress was of artfully cut gossamer. Her slippers were suitable for drinking champagne out of.

  “Are you satisfied now?” she said roughly. “This is the way you wanted it.”

  “Fannie, you’re beautiful!” I exclaimed. “You’re gorgeous! You’re breathtaking!”

  “Really, Dobie? Do you mean it?” There was no roughness in her tone now.

  “You’re the most beautiful creature I have ever seen!”

  Her blush was apparent even in the moonlight. “Don’t kid me, Dobie,” she said with lowered eyelids.

  “I was never so serious in my life. Come on. I’ll buy you a malted.” Then I remembered. “Oops. I guess I won’t buy you a malted. I’m broke.”

  “I’ve got some money,” she said eagerly. “Come on.”

  So we went to the soda shoppe and drank our malteds, and I told her how beautiful she was until she fairly squirmed with pleasure. Then she paid for the malteds with a silver dollar that had a bullet hole in the center.

  “Where,” I said, white-faced, “did you get this dollar?”

  “Out of the sugar bowl,” she confessed in a small voice. “I know you’ll think I’m horrid—I mean with the professor being broke and all that—but I had to borrow that money. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to get a permanent and buy all these clothes. It was the only way I knew to get you, Dobie.”

  She looked at me timidly, seeking approval, and my heart was filled with love for her. “It’s all right,” I said, patting her newly manicured hand. “It’s all right.”

  “I’ll pay it back, Dobie,” she assured me. “I’ll save up my allowance and pay it back.”

  “I’m sure you will,” I murmured, and then a new question came to mind. “Did you empty the sugar bowl yesterday too?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but it wasn’t enough. Without the money I took this afternoon, I wouldn’t have been able to do all these things and get you.… I have got you, haven’t I, Dobie?”

  “Yes, dear Fannie, you’ve got me,” I replied truthfully. “And now, how about a nice long walk?”

  “Love it,” said Fannie and linked her freshly massaged arm in mine.

  Now I am going steady with Fannie Jordan. But am I better off than before? Curse it, no.

  For a while things were fine. We took long walks and enjoyed simple pleasures, and I was able to clear up all my debts. But it could not last. Fannie, being a belle, finally got to thinking like a belle. Now nothing will do except downtown movies and swank cafés and live orchestras and taxis, and I am once more a deadbeat.

  How can you win?

  Everybody Loves My Baby

  It was Wednesday night, press time for the Koochiching County Weekly Argus. I sat checking the galley proofs while the governor read to me from the typewritten copy. (I call my father the governor. Actually, he isn’t the governor at all. He did run for the Minnesota State House of Representatives once but was defeated by Quintus Schermerhorn, the incumbent.)

  “Ready for the social notes, Dobie?” asked the governor. I nodded and he proceeded to read: “‘Wilhelm (Sonny) Rosencranz, son of Mr. and Mrs. Robert J. (Bob) Rosencranz, left Sunday for Hamline University. Good luck, Wilhelm (Sonny).… Emmaline (Emmy) Porter, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Leroy (Fats) Porter, left Sunday for the St. Cloud State Teachers College. Best wishes, Emmaline (Emmy).… Norbert (Froggy) Holmquist, son of Mr. and Mrs. Olaf (Bet-a-Nickel) Holmquist, left Sunday for Gustavus Adolphus College. Knock ’em dead, Norbert (Froggy).’”

  “I want to go to college too,” I said.

  “What for?” asked the governor.

  He had me there.

  “No, son,” said the governor kindly, “you stay here with me. I’ll be retiring in twenty or thirty years, and the Argus will be all yours.” He patted me on the shoulder and resumed reading the social notes. “‘Mr. and Mrs. Sven (Smiley) Bukema entertained Mrs. Bukema’s maternal cousin, Miss Hulda Storch of Little Falls, over the week end. A good time was had by all.… Mr. Lynwood (Shorty) Mason won first prize in the Koochiching County Arts and Crafts Show with his statuette of Harold Stassen made entirely of bottle caps. Congratulations, Lynwood (Shorty).… Miss Daphne (Goat) Meltzer—’”

  A thought occurred to me. “Would you say that running a country weekly is complicated, the governor?” I asked.

  The governor pulled a forelock thoughtfully as he had once seen William Allen White do in a newsreel. “Yes, son, I would,” he replied after some deliberation.

  “As complicated as law or medicine, for instance?”

  �
��Yes,” he said judiciously. “I believe it is.”

  “You wouldn’t allow a man to practice law or medicine without a college degree, would you?”

  “No.”

  “But you expect me to take over the Argus someday without ever having gone to college.”

  “Now, see here, Dobie—”

  “Look at it this way, the governor,” I said, pressing my advantage hard. “It would be an investment for you. Right now I’m not much help—just selling ads, setting type, reading proofs, and covering births, deaths, sports, and the county courthouse. But if I went to college and took a degree in journalism, I’d be equipped to be of some real help around here.”

  “You got a point, son,” admitted the governor, and the next issue of the Argus carried an item that Dobie Gillis, son of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur W. (Ye Ed) Gillis, left Thursday for the University of Minnesota. Good luck, Dobie.

  Now I have a little confession to make. Preparing myself to take over the Argus was only part of the reason I wanted to go to college; the rest of the reason was romantic. To be blunt, I was getting nowhere with the girls back home. The trouble was that I am a smallish, weakish fellow, and in my town the feminine taste runs to athletic types. All the plums were falling to the baseball and hockey teams. All I could get was what nobody else wanted, including me. Since I was a warm-blooded man of eighteen summers, the situation was not tolerable.

  In college I knew it would be different. There things were on an intellectual plane. A man with a keen, incisive mind (like mine, for example) needed not to go loveless simply because he was not bulging with sinew. At the university, where an I.Q. counted more than a bicep, I was confident that I would find my mate.

  Once at college I proceeded slowly. There was plenty to choose from; the campus was swarming with coeds—beautiful, well favored, and obviously intelligent, or else why would they be at college? Each day I went among them, peering into their faces, listening to their conversations, making notes, watching, waiting until the right one should appear.

  One afternoon as I was walking across the campus with my head turned to observe a likely looking girl about ten yards to my left, I ran into the outstretched arm of the statue of William Watts Folwell, first president of the university. I fell to the turf, my head ringing like a great gong. Almost instantly a girl appeared beside me. She fell to her knees, cradled my reverberating head in her lap, stroked my brow, crooned compassionate endearments. I accepted her ministrations happily for several minutes and then opened my eyes. As soon as I could focus, I knew I had found the right one.

  I don’t want to say anything extravagant. I want to stick scrupulousy to the facts. I cannot state with any authority that this girl was the most beautiful girl in the world. Somewhere there may have been a girl with hair as blond and lips as red and ears as shell-like and skin as white and form as shapely as this girl’s. I don’t know; it’s possible. But this I do know: nobody—living, dead, or unborn—ever had or will have eyes like this girl had. They were blue, deep blue. They were large and wide, and in them was intelligence, sympathy, patience, humor, tolerance, tenderness, honesty, unselfishness, and a great overweening love for mankind.

  “My name is Dobie Gillis,” I said.

  “You poor, poor boy,” she replied. “You poor boy.”

  “Dobie Gillis,” I repeated. “That’s my name.”

  “Does it hurt terribly? Shall I call a doctor?”

  “No, no. It’s fine. Gillis. Dobie Gillis.”

  “I’m Sally Bean—No, don’t get up. You lie there. I’ll go get a cold compress.”

  “Don’t go away,” I cried, grasping her hand. “Just sit by me. That’s a good girl.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is.”

  “Oh, good! What is it you want—a morphine Syrette, a traction splint, a transfusion, perhaps? Tell me.”

  “I want you to have dinner with me tonight.”

  “Of course, poor boy. Of course.”

  I beamed.

  “I’m going out to dinner with a few boys. You come along.”

  I un-beamed. “A few boys?”

  “Yes. Four or five.”

  “Sally,” I said uncertainly, “why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why four or five?”

  “Because they asked me,” she replied reasonably.

  I tried to rise. She pushed me gently back. “Lie still, poor boy,” she said.

  “Sally, there’s something I’d like to know.”

  “Of course, poor boy.”

  “Did these four or five fellows ask you to dinner all at once?”

  “No, I believe Davy Ball asked me first. Then Joe Bracken, then Bob Sindorf, then Georgie Packer, and then Ellis Ford. Or maybe Ellis asked me before Georgie. I forget.”

  I rubbed my chin for a minute. “Sally, I don’t mean to pry, but after Davy Ball asked you to dinner, why didn’t you refuse all the other dates?”

  “Because they would have been disappointed,” said Sally.

  There were two explanations: either the clout on the head had affected my hearing, or my leg was being pulled. “Sally,” I said, “would you walk ten paces away and read me a couple of lines from that book you’re carrying? In a low voice, Sally.”

  “Of course, poor boy,” she replied and walked ten paces away and read me a couple of lines in a low voice. I heard every word.

  “Come back,” I said. I looked deep into her eyes when she returned, and I could find no guile in them. This girl was obviously on the level. “You say the boys would have been disappointed if you had refused. Is that right?”

  She nodded.

  I nodded.

  “How does your head feel now, poor boy?”

  “Sally, what time do your dates usually call for you?”

  “Seven o’clock. But you come about fifteen minutes early so you can learn the rules before the others get there.”

  “I see,” I said. “The rules.”

  “I’d tell you the rules now, only I’m late for class. It there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

  I shook my head.

  “I live off campus with my folks. The address is 1426 Ashland. See you tonight. Goodbye, poor boy.”

  She left me mumbling thickly.

  Thinking about it all afternoon provided no solution. At 6:45 I stood on Sally’s stoop with a puzzled expression and a dozen American Beauties. Sally answered the door. “How is your head, poor boy?” she asked as she led me into the living room.

  “Fine,” I answered, looking cautiously about me. Everything seemed to be in order. It was a tastefully decorated room with the usual furniture and appointments. On a divan flanking the fireplace sat a handsome man and woman who appeared to be in their middle forties.

  “Mother, Dad,” said Sally, “this is Dobie Gillis, the boy I was telling you about.”

  “How is your head, poor boy?” said Mrs. Bean.

  “Fine,” I said.

  Mr. Bean rose and extended his hand. I reached out to shake it, but instead he took the bouquet of flowers from my other hand.

  “That is the first rule, Dobie,” he said. “No flowers, no candy, no perfume, no gifts of any kind. And, most particularly, no letters or phone calls.”

  “Sally,” said Mrs. Bean reproachfully, “you should have told Dobie.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I had to rush to class.”

  “Won’t you sit down, Dobie?” said Mrs. Bean. “Mr. Bean will explain the rules.”

  I fell heavily into a chair. “Please,” I begged.

  “It’s really very simple,” said Mr. Bean. “Will you have a cigarette?”

  I shook my head dumbly.

  He lighted a cigarette, sat down beside his wife, and began. “As you can see, Dobie, Sally is a very attractive girl. I think it is safe to say that she will find a young man without difficulty.”

  That, at least, made sense. I nodded enthusiastically.

 
“Sally,” he went on, “is also a very tender-hearted girl. She is greatly disturbed by suffering. She will go to great lengths to help out anybody who is in trouble or in pain. She inherits this admirable quality from her mother.”

  A tender glance passed between husband and wife.

  “To illustrate my point, Dobie,” he said, “this afternoon when you bumped your head—”

  “How is your head, poor boy?” asked Sally and her mother in tandem.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “As I was saying, this afternoon when you bumped your head, Sally would have done anything to make you feel better. If you had asked her to go steady, or even to marry you, it is very likely that she would have accepted.”

  “Now he tells me,” I muttered.

  “As you can see, Dobie,” he continued, “Sally’s tender heart is a bit of a problem. When she was a little girl, it wasn’t so serious. But now that she is of an age to go steady, or to get married, for that matter, the situation is downright dangerous. For example, what if you had asked Sally to marry you this afternoon? I mean no offense, Dobie. I’m sure you’re a fine, upstanding young man. But what if you were not? What if you were a cad and Sally had agreed to marry you? Her whole life would be ruined.”

  Mrs. Bean patted her husband’s hand. “She might not have been as lucky as I was.”

  “Mother and Dad met in an elevator in a department store,” Sally explained. “Her hatpin stuck in his cheek and twelve hours later they were married.”

  “All right,” I allowed. “It’s a dangerous situation. I see where Sally’s tender heart could get her into all kinds of trouble. But what about the rules?”

  “I’m coming to that,” said Mr. Bean. “When Sally was old enough to start having dates, it was clear that she needed some kind of protection. We couldn’t keep her locked in the house. At the same time we couldn’t run the risk of letting some unscrupulous young man get her alone and force her into marriage by playing on her sympathies. So we sat down, Sally and her mother and I, and we arrived at a solution. We agreed, all three of us, that she would never have dates with one boy at a time. When she went out, she would go with several boys, no one of whom would be allowed to spend any time with her alone, to send her gifts or letters, to call her on the phone, or otherwise to gain any advantage over the others.”