by Max Shulman
“What’ll we do in the broom closet?”
“We’ll hide in there until we’re sure Obispo and Fitzhugh and the janitor and everybody has left the building. Then we’ll come out and go to work on the analysis. We’ll work right straight through until Monday morning. We’ll bring flashlights so we can work at night too.”
“Why can’t we turn on the lights?”
“Somebody might see. There’s a very strict university rule about students staying in classrooms after hours without chaperones—especially students of mixed sexes.”
Helen grinned suddenly. “You know, Dobie, this sounds kind of exciting. I mean danger and adventure and intrigue and all that stuff. I bet it’s going to be fun.”
“Sure,” I said. It hadn’t occurred to me as fun before, but now I could see the possibilities. “Tell you what. Let’s bring sandwiches and make a kind of picnic out of it.”
“And pickles too,” said Helen. “I love pickles.”
“All right. One of us will bring sandwiches and the other one will bring pickles. Now let’s go over our plans carefully so there won’t be any hitch.”
There was no hitch. The following morning, just before the class ended, we approached a couple of students for their lecture notes and they turned them over without argument. Then when the bell rang and the students started filing out, we gathered up our things and ducked into the broom closet. Unseen, we closed the door behind us. We huddled cheek by jowl in the darkness.
We heard Mr. Fitzhugh and Mr. Obispo making preparations to leave. “Say, Obispo,” said Fitzhugh, “maybe we ought to hang around and get that potassium sulfate ready for Monday morning’s experiment. It’ll only take a couple of hours.”
My heart sank. Asphyxiation in our present situation was no improbability.
“I can’t,” replied Mr. Obispo, to my immense relief. “I promised the wife I’d take her downtown to look at some dresses this afternoon.”
“How can she buy dresses on your salary?” asked Mr. Fitzhugh.
“She can’t,” answered Mr. Obispo. “She just likes to look at them.”
“We’ve got to get that potassium ready before class on Monday,” said Mr. Fitzhugh.
“We can get here early Monday morning and do it,” said Mr. Obispo.
Mr. Fitzhugh agreed and they left. We stayed in the closet for another half hour while the janitor came in and cleaned up the lab. Only after we heard the janitor’s footsteps going downstairs and the sound of the outside door being locked did we emerge.
“Kind of scary, isn’t it?” said Helen, and indeed the empty lab did look sinister.
“We won’t notice it after we start working,” I assured her.
“Let’s eat first, Dobie. I’m hungry.”
“All right.” I opened a bag and took out a quart jar. “Here are the pickles.”
Her jaw dropped. “Did you,” she asked weakly, “bring pickles?”
“Sure. Why, what’s wrong?”
She opened a bag and took out a quart jar. “I brought pickles too.”
“No sandwiches?” I said in dismay.
“I thought you were bringing them.”
“And I thought you were.”
“That’s all right,” she said bravely. “I love pickles.”
“Me too,” I said with a grisly smile.
We sat down and ate pickles until our mouths puckered and then we went to work. First we read our lecture notes. Helen frankly confessed herself baffled. So was I, although, for the sake of her morale, I didn’t admit it. “We’ll get the hang of it once we’re started,” I kept saying.
“Well, let’s get started then.” She reached for a test tube.
I laid a restraining hand on her arm. “Helen,” I said as kindly as possible, “I mean no offense, but I think I better do all the lab work. You know how you get when you’re working with chemicals. We can’t afford to have any explosions right now. It might attract people.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, pouting a little.
“I’ll do your solution first and then I’ll do mine. You read the notes to me as I work.”
She picked up the notebook and started to read: “To test for metals of the hydrochloric acid group, add dilute hydrochloric acid with a constant stirring until a precipitate ceases to form. Allow the precipitate to settle and add a few more drops of acid to make sure the precipitation is complete. Decant the supernatant liquid through a filler, wash the residue twice by decantation, and finally transfer it to the filter. Treat the residue with 50 cc. of boiling water and return to the funnel at least three times. Add NH4OH and let stand for at least five minutes. Remove the pinchcock and catch the filtrate in a beaker.”
After some false starts—about two hundred—I completed this part of the analysis and discovered that lead nitrate was one ingredient of Helen’s solution. It was now slightly after 6 P.M. and the light was failing. We pulled the shades, turned on our flashlights, had a pickle, and proceeded with the second part of the analysis—testing for metals of the hydrogen sulphide group. This was a process consisting of twenty fiendishly complicated steps. When I finished, I knew that antimony nitrate was another ingredient of the solution, and dawn was breaking.
If there is anything that will take the heart out of a man, it is a pickle for breakfast. But there was no choice. Overcoming fatigue, heartache, and nausea, I slugged forward with the analysis. I was getting better at it now, and it took me only three hours to find that zinc nitrate was a third ingredient.
Until dark I ran a battery of other tests on Helen’s solution, none of which yielded a thing. “I’ve finished it,” I said wearily. “Your solution contains lead nitrate, antimony nitrate, and zinc nitrate.”
“Oh, Dobie, you’re wonderful,” she breathed. “Have a pickle.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said quickly. “Come on, let’s get started on my solution.”
“Couldn’t we rest for just a minute first?” she asked. “Just a little catnap before we go ahead. I’m beat, Dobie.”
So was I. “All right,” I agreed. “We’ll sit down on our stools and put our heads on the table for just a couple of minutes.”
So we sat down on our stools and put our heads on the tables for just a couple of minutes and the next thing I knew, daylight was streaming in the windows.
I looked at my watch. Seven o’clock! I leaped up with a bellow of consternation. Class began at eight-thirty! Rudely I shook Helen awake and I ripped the cork out of my bottle of solution. “Come on, come on, start reading those notes,” I cried.
But before she could begin, there came the unmistakable sound of the outside door being opened downstairs. We stared at one another, biting our knuckles in horror. Then I sprang into action. Helen’s table was littered with tubes and flasks and beakers and pickle jars. I opened the drawer beneath her table and threw everything in. Then I grabbed her, dragged her into the broom closet and closed the door.
We heard two people come into the lab—Mr. Fitzhugh and Mr. Obispo. I remembered then that they had made plans to come to class early on Monday to prepare potassium sulfate. Juxtaposed in the airless closet, we heard them moving about the lab. Then we heard footsteps very close to the closet door. We heard the footsteps stop right by our worktables. We heard the sound of sniffing. “Hey, Fitz,” said Mr. Obispo’s voice, “do you smell something around here?”
And I remembered that I had left the bottle of my solution standing open on my table. A wave of faintness engulfed me, and I would have toppled over had there been room in the closet.
The sound of Mr. Fitzhugh’s footsteps approaching. The sound of him sniffing. “Smells like C2H2O2 in a five per cent solution,” said Mr. Fitzhugh.
“That’s it all right,” said Mr. Obispo. “But where’s it coming from?”
“Come on, Obispo, let’s get the potassium ready,” said Mr. Fitzhugh impatiently. “We haven’t got much time.”
We heard them walking away. I squeezed Helen exultantly. With great d
ifficulty I stifled a cry of joy. Now in my darkest hour a kind fate has succored me. C2H2O2 in a five per cent solution! Now I knew what was in my bottle! Now I would pass chemistry! Now I wouldn’t have to go to work in my father’s bakery!
This narrative is being written in my father’s bakery. I work there now. I am not in college any more. Maybe next year I’ll go back. I hope so. Helen promised to wait for me.
The reason I am not in college is that I flunked chemistry. Helen passed it. We stayed hidden in the closet that morning until the rest of the students started coming into the lab. Then we sneaked out and got behind our tables. Nobody saw us; nobody suspected that we had spent the week end in the lab. We quickly wrote out reports on the contents of our solutions and we turned them in when the rest of the class did. Helen’s report was correct. Mine was not. C2H2O2 in a five per cent solution was not what was in my bottle. I guess I’ll never know what was in my bottle, but I have found out what C2H2O2 in a five per cent solution is. It is vinegar. What Mr. Fitzhugh and Mr. Obispo smelled was the pickles.
The Face Is Familiar But—
You can never tell. Citizens, you can never tell. Take the week end of May 18. From all indications it was going to be a dreamboat. Saturday night was the fraternity formal, and Sunday night Petey Burch was taking me to the Dr. Askit quiz broadcast. Every prospect pleased.
At 7:30 Saturday night I got into my rented tux and picked up my rented car. At 8:30 I called for my date and was told that she had come down with the measles at 7:30. So I shugged my rented shoulders, got into my rented car, and went to the dance alone.
I had taken my place in the stag line when Petey Burch rushed up to me, his face flushed with excitement. He waved a letter at me. “I’ve got it!” he cried. “Here’s a letter from my parents saying I can join the Navy.” Petey, like me, was seventeen years old and needed permission from home to enlist.
“That’s swell, Petey,” I said. “I’ve got some news too. My date has the measles.”
“Tough,” he said sympathetically. Then he suddenly got more excited than ever and hollered: “No! No, that’s perfect. Listen, Dobie, the recruiting station is still open. I can go right down and enlist now.”
“But what about the dance? What about your date?”
“The Navy,” said Petey, snapping to attention, “needs men now. Every minute counts. How can I think of staying at a dance when there’s a war to be won? I’ve got to get out of here, Dobie. I owe it to the boys Over There.”
“What are you going to tell your date?”
“That’s where you come in, Dobie. You take my girl; I go catch a bus. I won’t tell her anything. I’ll just disappear and you explain it to her later.”
“Won’t she mind?”
“I suppose she will, but it doesn’t really matter. This is the first date I’ve ever had with her and I’ll probably never see her again.” He set his jaw. “God knows when I’ll be coming back from Over There.”
“I understand,” I said simply.
“Thanks, old man,” he said simply.
We shook hands.
“By the way,” I said, “what about those two tickets you’ve got for the Dr. Askit broadcast tomorrow night?”
“They’re yours,” he said, handing them to me.
“Thanks, old man,” I said simply.
“Here comes my date now,” Petey said, pointing at the powder-room door. I took one look at her and knew what a patriot he must be to run out on a smooth operator like that. She was strictly on the side of angels.
“Where’d you find her?” I drooled.
“Just met her the other night. She’s new around here. Now. I’ll introduce you and you dance with her while I make my getaway.”
“Solid,” I agreed.
She walked over to us, making pink-taffeta noises. The timing was perfect. The orchestra was tuning up for the first number just as she reached us.
“Hi,” said Petey. “I want you to meet a friend of mine. Dobie Gillis, this is—”
At that instant the orchestra started to play and I didn’t catch her name. And no wonder. The orchestra was led by a trumpeter who had a delusion that good trumpeting and loud trumpeting are the same thing. Between him and Harry James, he figured, were only a few hundred decibels of volume. Every time he played he narrowed the gap.
“Excuse me,” shouted Petey, and left.
“Dance?” I yelled.
“What?” she screamed.
I made dancing motions and she nodded. We moved out on the floor. I tried to tell her while we were dancing that I hadn’t caught her name, but it was impossible. The trumpeter, feeling himself gaining on Harry James, was pursuing his advantage hard. At last there came a short trumpet break, and I made a determined stab at it.
“I don’t like to seem dull,” I said to the girl, “but when Petey introduced us, I didn’t catch your—”
But the trumpeter was back on the job, stronger than ever after his little rest. The rest of the song made the “Anvil Chorus” sound like a lullaby. I gave up then, and we just danced.
Came the intermission and I tried again. “I know this is going to sound silly, but when we were intro—”
“I wonder where Petey is,” she interrupted. “He’s been gone an awfully long time.”
“Oh, not so long really. Well, as I was saying, it makes me feel foolish to ask, but I didn’t—”
“It has, too, been a long time. I think that’s an awfully funny way for a boy to act when he takes a girl out for the first time. Where do you suppose he is?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Probably just—oh well, I suppose I might as well tell you now.” So I told her.
She bit her lip. “Dobie,” she quavered, “will you please take me home?”
“Home? It’s so early.”
“Please, Dobie.”
Seventeen years of experience had taught me not to argue with a woman whose eyes are full of tears. I went and got my Driv-Ur-Self limousine, packed her into it, and started off.
“I—live—at—2123—Fremont—Avenue,” she wailed.
“There, there,” I cooed. “Try to look at it his way. The Navy needs men now. The longer he stayed around the dance tonight, the longer the war would last. Believe me, if my parents would sign a letter for me, I’d be Over There plenty quick, believe me.”
“You mean,” she wept, “that you would run off and stand up a girl at a formal affair?”
“Well,” I said, “maybe not that. I mean I would hardly run out on a girl like you.” I took her hand. “A girl so beautiful and lovely and pretty.”
She smiled through tears. “You’re sweet, Dobie.”
“Oh, pshaw,” I pshawed. “Say, I’ve got a couple of tickets to the Dr. Askit quiz broadcast tomorrow night. How about it?”
“Oh, Dobie, I’d love to. Only I don’t know if Daddy will let me. He wants me to stay in and study tomorrow night. But I’ll see what I can do. You call me.”
“All right,” I said, “but first there’s something you have to tell me.” I turned to her. “Now, please don’t think that I’m a jerk, but it wasn’t my fault. When Petey introduced us, I didn’t—”
At this point I ran into the rear end of a bus. There followed a period of unpleasantness with the bus driver, during which I got a pithy lecture on traffic regulations. I don’t know what he had to be sore about. His bus wasn’t even nicked. The radiator grille of my car, on the other hand, was a total loss.
And when I got back in the car, there was more grief. The sudden stop had thrown the girl against the windshield head first, and her hat, a little straw number with birds, bees, flowers, and a patch of real grass, was now a heap of rubble. She howled all the way home.
“I’m afraid this evening hasn’t been much fun,” I said truly as I walked her to her door.
“I’m sorry, Dobie,” she sniffled. “I’m sorry all this had to happen to you. You’ve been so nice to me.”
“Oh, it’s nothing any young American wouldn’t
have done,” I said.
“You’ve been very sweet,” she repeated. “I hope we’ll get to be very good friends.”
“Oh, we will. We certainly will.”
She was putting her key in the lock.
“Just one more thing,” I said. “Before you go in, I have to know—”
“Of course,” she said. “I asked you to call and didn’t give you my number. It’s Kenwood 6817.”
“No,” I said, “it’s not that. I mean yes, I wanted that too. But there’s another thing.”
“Certainly, Dobie,” she whispered and kissed me quickly. Then the door was closed behind her.
“Nuts,” I mumbled, got into the car, returned it to the Driv-Ur-Self service, where I left a month’s allowance to pay for the broken grille, and went back to the fraternity house.
A few of the guys were sitting in the living room. “Hi, Dobie,” called one. “How’d you come out with that smooth operator? Petey sure picked the right night to run off and join the Navy, eh?”
“Oh, she was fine,” I answered. “Say, do any of you fellows know her name?”
“No, you lucky dog. She’s all yours. Petey just met her this week and you’re the only one he introduced her to. No competition. You lucky dog.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Lucky dog.” And I went upstairs to bed.
It was a troubled night, but I had a headful of plans when I got up in the morning. After all, the problem wasn’t so difficult. Finding out a girl’s name should be no task for a college freshman, a crossword-puzzle expert, and the senior-class poet of the Salmon P. Chase High School, Blue Earth, Minnesota.
First I picked up the phone and dialed the operator. “Hello,” I said, “I’d like to find out the name of the people who live at 2123 Fremont Avenue. The number is Kenwood 6817.
“I’m sorry. We’re not allowed to give out that information.”
I hung up. Then I tried plan No. 2. I dialed Kenwood 6817. A gruff male voice answered, “Hello.”
“Hello,” I said, “Who is this?”
