by Max Shulman
“Mother seemed disinclined to discuss you,” Pansy replied, “but Daddy was quite frank. He said you ought to be locked up.”
“Hm,” I said glumly, but my spirits instantly revived. “Don’t worry, Pansy,” I said confidently. “I will win him.”
Overriding Pansy’s earnest protests, I continued to call on her at home. The results were not what I had hoped. Her mother contrived to be absent whenever I came. Her father’s attitude toward me progressed from dismay to consternation; his color evolved from a brackish white to a mottled purple. It seemed that there was nothing I could do to please him. My friendly grimaces only served to infuriate him. Whenever I gave him a jovial slap on the back, he recoiled in horror. It got so that the mere sight of me would set him whimpering. “No good will come of all this,” I told myself darkly.
I was right. Mr. Hammer sent Pansy away from me. Instead of letting her return to the University of Minnesota for her second year, he shipped her off to New York City. There she was to live with her aunt Naomi, a flinty old spinster, and attend Barnard College. Aunt Naomi had been instructed by Mr. Hammer to reject all phone calls and destroy all letters coming from me.
And now here I was in the Ski-U-Mah office, separated from my true love by half a continent. If only I had some money, I would have flown to her, but I was as poor as a churchmouse and twice as miserable.
“Dobie,” said Dewey Davenport sharply. “Will you pay attention? Ski-U-Mah may have to close this year. We’ve only got two weeks before school starts. We need circulation. That’s your job, remember?”
“Pansy,” I said, biting my lip. “Pansy.”
“Ah, what’s the use?” said Boyd Phelps dejectedly. “Even if Dobie had any ideas, it wouldn’t help. Let’s face it, Dewey. Ski-U-Mah is a dead duck. The day of the college humor magazine is over—not only at Minnesota, but everywhere. College kids have outgrown all that rah-rah stuff. The war, the A-bomb, the H-bomb—who’s thinking about fun and jokes these days?”
“Nuts,” replied Dewey. “College kids are still college kids. They’re still smooching and driving convertibles and cutting classes and looking for laughs.”
“Not like they used to,” said Boyd.
“Yes,” Dewey insisted. “Here, I’ll give you an example. Remember last year when Benny Goodman played a dance at the gym? They had the biggest turnout in the history of the university. Does that sound like everyone is sitting around moping?”
Yes, I thought, a soft smile playing on my lips, yes, I remembered that dance. Pansy and I had gone together. Oh, how we danced, how we stomped, how we whirled, how we hopped, how we—CLANG! A bell sounded in my head with the noise of a thousand alarms. An idea had come to me, an overpoweringly perfect idea! Everything was solved. Everything!
“I’ve got it!” I cried, jumping up and down. “I’ve got it!”
Dewey and Boyd looked at me askance.
“That’s our answer,” I said eagerly. “That’s how we’ll get subscriptions for Ski-U-Mah. We’ll hold a dance.”
“I don’t get it,” confessed Dewey.
“Look,” I said. “We’ll hire a big-name band—Benny Goodman or Tommy Dorsey or somebody like that. Then instead of charging a dollar for a ticket to the dance as they usually do, we’ll charge two dollars. The extra dollar will be for a year’s subscription to Ski-U-Mah. It’s a package deal, don’t you see?”
Dewey and Boyd considered the idea. “Not bad, not bad,” said Boyd.
“No, it isn’t,” Dewey agreed. “It’s a fine idea. There’s only one hitch. Have we got enough money in our treasury to hire a big-name band?”
“We’ve got exactly one thousand dollars,” said Boyd.
Dewey shook his head. “Not enough.”
“We could try,” said Boyd. “Why don’t we write a letter to the booking office in New York and see what they say?”
“No, no,” I cried quickly. That wasn’t what I had in mind at all. A trip to New York was the most important part of my plan—to see Pansy again, to live again, to be a whole man again. But, of course, I did not intend to mention that to Dewey and Boyd.
“Don’t send a letter,” I said. “They’ll only turn you down. You can’t expect them to send Goodman or Dorsey all the way to Minneapolis for a thousand dollars—unless, of course, some young clean-cut fellow appeared in person and persuaded them.”
“You, for instance?” said Dewey.
“Not to brag,” I said, lowering my eyes modestly, “but you will go far to find another as young and clean-cut as I.”
“And you think they’d listen to you at the booking agency?” asked Dewey.
“I’m sure of it,” I declared. “I’ll come up there all neat and tweedy with my cowlick standing up and a lump in my throat and I’ll tell them all about our great Ski-U-Mah tradition and how the magazine is in trouble and how everything depends on them, and then I’ll look up at them, trusting-like, with my eyes shining and a crooked little smile on my face. How can they resist me?”
I took a stance and showed Dewey and Boyd what I meant.
“He does look kind of appealing,” Boyd admitted.
“Yes, he does,” said Dewey, examining me minutely.
I nodded energetically.
Dewey waved a forefinger under my nose. “Now listen, Dobie, your expenses have to come out of this thousand dollars, so don’t waste a cent. You’ll travel by bus and you’ll sleep at the Y.M.C.A. Eat as little as possible. Do your business as soon as you get to New York and then come right back. Understand?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” I said, clapping my hands rapidly. I was going to Pansy, to Pansy, to Pansy! Oh, happy day! Oh, kind fate!
The next morning Dewey and Boyd took me down to the Minneapolis bust depot and put me on a bus for New York. I got off the bus in St. Paul and transferred to an airplane. A tedious bus journey was not to be borne; I had to get to Pansy quickly. I felt a little guilty about spending the extra fare, but after all, twenty or thirty dollars would hardly make any difference when I came to hire a band.
As soon as I landed at LaGuardia Field, I rushed to the telephones. I looked up Aunt Naomi’s number and dialed it with trembling fingers. An unfriendly feminine voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hello,” I said. “Is Miss Pansy Hammer there?”
“Who is calling?” asked the voice suspiciously.
“This is Mr. Johnson. I am the dean of Barnard College.”
“You sound awfully young to be a dean,” said doubting old Aunt Naomi.
“Yes, don’t I?” I replied with a hollow laugh. “In many quarters I am known as ‘The Boy Dean.’ … But enough of this chitchat. I’m a very busy dean. Please put Miss Hammer on.”
There was a short pause and then I heard Pansy’s voice. “Pansy!” I cried, vibrating joyously in the phone booth. “Pansy, it’s Dobie Gillis. I’ve come to you, my darling. I’m here in New York.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath and then she said in a carefully controlled tone, “Why yes, Dean. When do you want to see me?”
“Smart girl,” I said approvingly. “Can you meet me in an hour at the airlines terminal building in New York?”
“I’ll be there,” she said. “Goodbye, Dean.”
Rubbing my hands gleefully, I got into the airlines limousine and rode to New York. I was at the terminal building in thirty minutes. That left another thirty minutes to wait before Pansy would arrive. I was much too agitated to sit still so I decided to go out for a short walk. I skipped down Forty-second Street and turned up Fifth Avenue. The gaily decorated shopwindows matched my festive mood, and soon I was singing lustily. As I passed a florist’s shop, my attention was seized by a display of orchids in the window. No ordinary orchids these, but blooms as white and soft and lovely as Pansy herself. I went into the store.
A clerk slithered toward me. “M’sieu?” he lisped.
“I would like a dozen of those orchids,” I cried, “for the loveliest girl in the world.”
“Quel sen
timent!” he exclaimed, embracing me.
“Quickly,” I said, disengaging myself. “She comes.”
He swished into action and in a trice he had fashioned a corsage that made me limp with rapture. “That will be one hundred dollars,” he said.
I turned ashen.
“A glass of water?” asked the clerk. “A light wine, perhaps?”
I shook my head, for already I was recovering. After all, what difference would a hundred dollars make when it came to hiring the band? The whole deal was to be based on my personal appeal anyhow. In fact, the less money I had, the more pathetic I would be. And besides, it would be worth a hundred dollars to see Pansy’s face when I gave her the corsage—even if the hundred dollars was not mine. Smiling, I handed the clerk the money and raced back to the terminal building.
She was waiting for me. Fifty feet separated us when I first spied her. I covered the distance in three great bounds. “My darling, my angel, my dove!” I cried, kissing her with random accuracy.
“Dobie,” she said simply.
We clung.
“A corsage,” I said, handing her the orchids.
“Oh, they’re lovely.… But it’s kind of big for a corsage, isn’t it, Dobie?”
“I’ll fix that,” I said and draped the orchids around her neck like a Derby winner.
We laughed. Then, suddenly serious, I clutched her again. “I’ve missed you so much, Pansy.”
She nuzzled my jowl. “And I you,” she confessed.
“Is there no chance that your father will let you come back to Minnesota?”
She shook her head. “No. I start classes at Barnard next week.”
“Shall I survive this year?” I croaked hoarsely, smiting my forehead.
“I know,” she said softly. “It’s going to be awful.” She wept, nor were my eyes dry.
“But away with this gloom!” I cried. “At least we will have a little time together. Let us be gay. Let us taste all the joys that this great city has to offer.”
“Heigh-ho,” she replied airily and linked her pretty round arm in mine.
Some may censure me for my activities on that evening, and I cannot really defend myself. Admittedly the expenditure of two hundred dollars of Ski-U-Mah funds was not an honorable act. I can only say this: I did not know when I would see Pansy again; there was money in my pocket; the town was full of pleasures; and even under the best of circumstances, I cannot think clearly in Pansy’s presence. Call me wayward if you will; that was the way things were.
We had cocktails at the Plaza. We had dinner at 21. We saw South Pacific. We had supper at the Stork. We danced at El Morocco. We drove four times around Central Park in a hansom. After I took Pansy home, I checked into the Waldorf. No lesser hostelry would suit my exalted mood.
In the morning, of course, things were different. I lay between the Waldorf’s excellent sheets jack-knifed with panic. It took a long time before I was able to get up and count my money. Then, having discovered that my funds totaled slightly over six hundred dollars, I oozed to the floor in a moaning mound. An hour was spent in this position. At length I rallied myself. There was nothing to do but go down to the booking agency and try to get a band for six hundred dollars.
I prepared myself carefully. I yanked my cowlick until it stood like a mast on my scalp. I buffed my face until it shone like a Baldwin apple. I practiced digging my toe into the rug. I stood before the mirror and ran through my repertory of winsome expressions. Then I went down to the booking agency.
The booking agency occupied one large, shabby office. Part of the office was a waiting room; the other part, separated by a waist-high railing, was the business office. Seated on a bench in the waiting room were six huge, villainous-looking women. At a desk behind the railing sat a cadaverous, blue-jowled man with eyes like two bits of anthracite. The six women were staring dully at the floor as I entered. They looked at me with momentary interest, then sighed and returned their gaze to the floor. I approached the man behind the railing.
“How do you do?” I said with a fetching smile. “I’m Dobie Gillis from the University of Minnesota Ski-U-Mah.”
He gave me a quick appraisal with his anthracite eyes and said nothing.
“I’d like to book a band for a dance at the university on September 14. I had in mind someone like Benny Goodman or Tommy Dorsey.”
“How much loot you got?” asked the man.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Money. How much?”
“First,” I said, smiling warmly, “I’d like to tell you a little about Ski-U-Mah. It’s one of the finest traditions at the University of Minnesota. Yes, indeed. We all have a soft spot in our hearts for Ski-U-Mah out there. We certainly do.”
“How much loot?”
“Ski-U-Mah, you’ll be distressed to hear, has fallen on evil days. But now, with your co-operation, we believe we can save it. I know, of course, that sentiment and business are not supposed to mix, but I always say, scratch a businessman and you’ll find a heart of pure gold.”
“Kid, come on already. How much loot?”
“Six hundred dollars,” I said, turning a look upon him that would melt a stone.
“Goodbye, kid,” he said.
“Vaughan Monroe would do,” I said, tugging my cowlick.
“Kid,” he said, “you got rocks in your head?”
“Perhaps,” I said in a cracking treble, “you could suggest somebody?”
“Nobody,” he said flatly, “will go to Minneapolis for six hundred dollars.”
“Ahem, ahem.” The sound came from behind me. I turned and saw the largest of the six women on the bench rise and approach me with a gigantic grin.
“Kid,” said the man at the desk, “you’re in luck. This is Happy Stella Kowalski and her Schottische Five. They just happen to be between bookings right now.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, hey,” said Happy Stella, crushing my hand in hers. The Schottische Five stood up and grinned fatly.
“You are a band?” I asked nervously.
“The best,” roared Happy Stella. “Ask Al.”
“The best,” confirmed the man at the desk. “They play more Lithuanian weddings than any band on the entire Atlantic Seaboard.”
“We’re a riot, hey,” confessed Stella, prodding me with her outsized forefinger. “We wear funny hats. We black our teeth. We play washboards, gaspipes, pots and pans, all kinds of funny stuff. We fracture the people.”
“You mustn’t take this unkindly, Happy Stella,” I said, “but I’ve never heard of you.”
“Kid, where you been?” asked Al. “This is the hottest combination in New York. You don’t know how lucky you are to catch ’em between bookings.”
I scratched my head uncertainly. “And they’ll come for six hundred dollars?”
“Ordinarily, no,” said Al. “For Ski-U-Mah, yes.”
He whipped out a contract, gave me a pen, and guided my hand over the dotted line. Then I shook hands with Al and Happy Stella and the Schottische Five, Rutka, Sletka, Dombra, Simka, and Majeska—and left the office with a breast full of misgivings.
I had not done well; there was no gainsaying it. For a moment I toyed with the idea of not going back to Minneapolis, but finally dismissed the thought as cowardly. Besides, I didn’t have enough money left to stay in New York. I went to the bus station, bought a ticket home with my remaining resources, and invested my last dime in a good-bye phone call to Pansy.
Aunt Naomi answered. “Hello,” I said, “this is Mr. Johnson, the Boy Dean. I want to talk to Miss Hammer.”
“I have called Barnard College,” said Aunt Naomi icily. “There is no Mr. Johnson on the faculty. You are Dobie Gillis, and if you try to communicate with Pansy again I will call the police.”
“Please, Aunt Naomi,” I could hear Pansy saying, “just let me say goodbye to him.”
“Very well,” said Aunt Naomi. “But this is the last time, you understand?”
Pansy came on th
e phone. “How are you, Dobie dear?”
“Fine,” I lied. There was no use to afflict her with my misery.
“Did you get Benny Goodman for your dance?”
“No,” I said with a wan smile, “I got somebody better. Happy Stella Kowalski and her Schottische Five.”
“Who?”
“It’s a sensational new all-girl band. They fracture the people.”
“That’s nice, dear. When are you leaving?”
“In a few minutes.”
“Oh, how I wish I were going back with you! I’ll miss you so much, Dobie, so very much.”
“Me too.”
She sobbed briefly.
“Don’t cry, dear,” I soothed. “Maybe we’ll be together soon.”
“It can’t be soon enough. When do you think you’ll get back to New York?”
“Not,” I said, “in the forseeable future.”
“Oh, Dobie!” she wailed.
“Goodbye, Pansy, dear heart. I love you.”
Gently I hung up the telephone and walked into the bus for Minneapolis.
Dewey and Boyd were waiting for me at the Minneapolis station. At first I tried to bluff it out. “Great news, fellows!” I shouted. “I booked Happy Stella Kowalski and her Schottische Five. What a coup for Ski-U-Mah!”
“Who?” said Dewey and Boyd with double horror.
I could not go on with it. Suddenly the truth came pouring from my lips, the whole horrible story. “But I’ll pay back the money I spent,” I said in conclusion. “I’ll pay it back somehow.”
“I know you will, Dobie,” said Dewey wearily, without anger. “That’s not the point. What happens to Ski-U-Mah now? How do we get anybody to buy tickets for Happy Stella Kowalski?”
“They’ll close the magazine this year if we don’t make a profit,” said Boyd.
“I know,” I replied miserably. “I’m just a no-good rat.”
Dewey put his arm around my slumping shoulders. “All right, Dobie. What’s done is done. Now the only thing left is to try to sell some dance tickets.”
And try we did. We collared everybody on campus; we applied all possible pressures. Our efforts were greeted with curt refusals, sometimes with astonishment. “Happy Stella who?” people would ask. When the night of the dance came around, we had sold exactly 150 tickets to an enrollment of 20,000 students.
