But they call. Permit me to sketch in the background. On the face of it, the juxtaposition of such divergent stags might be expected to produce at least several novel methods of conquest. The second date is usually a very offbeat sort of thing. It may be a hamburger or a Forty-second Street movie. The third date is: I cook dinner in my apartment. I happen to be a very good cook. It was a week night. I wanted to have a football pumped up. I daresay that although the transcript gives no hint of it, there was an instant of stunned silence among his confreres.
The question that immediately springs to mind, of course, is how Phil came to arrive at this conclusion. Was it the end product of painful trial and error or a sudden blinding revelation? I suggest that we might possibly derive some clue from portions of what I imagine to be his diary.
Another rough day at the office. The minute I walked in this morning and the new girl at the switchboard saw me, I knew I was in for trouble. I stood there, cool and amused, while she fought to regain control, and then asked her if she had any messages for me.
Would you mind? I was strongly tempted, but my life is complicated enough already, God knows. Oh, yes, and another—a Miss Foltis, or Poultice. She offered to stay all night. I told her not to put through any further social calls today, no matter how urgent, and went along to my desk.
Less than an hour later, she buzzed me. I sat there trying to figure out what the catch was, and all of a sudden it dawned on me. The whole thing was a ruse Sondra had dreamed up, a pretext to get me sufficiently stoned to be easy prey for her wiles.
Rather than humiliate the kid by accusing her, though, I played it cagey. That slowed her up, by jingo. I wonder if people ever stop to think what a drag it is to be criminally handsome, to have every damned salesgirl and waitress and receptionist slavering over you, trying to date you up and get your phone number.
It really drives me up the wall to hear those females whinnying and whistling when I walk down a subway platform. I often ask myself, Are these bird-brains members of my own species? Take this Sondra effect, for instance. One afternoon, on returning from lunch, I found her crying her heart out at the switchboard. She had a hankie crumpled against her lips and she looked so woebegone that, against my better judgment, I asked what was wrong.
The poor creature was desperate, I could see; she had all the necessary equipment—the tape measure, the pad and pencil—and yet, without somebody to assist her, she was likely to be disqualified.
Suddenly, as we were mulling over her predicament, an inspiration seized her. I realize you hate me. I was complying with her instructions when, without any warning, she wriggled around with the agility of an eel and, gluing her mouth to mine, imprisoned me in a kiss.
It took all my strength to uncoil her arms from my neck and thrust her away. I guess the shock of my rejection and her disappointment were more than she could stand, because she keeled over in a dead faint. So I just let her lie there and work it out as best she could.
Maybe my whole scale of values was gaga and this kook was a real person—not altogether human but struggling to be. No, it was too fantastic. I wish I knew more about biology. W ell, I suppose I had it coming to me and I should have been prepared. And boy, what a lulu this one was! Why a tiny mishap like that should throw me is beyond my ken, but the minute I discovered it was gone I got panicky. My headache was how the devil to remember their categories—which I just talked to, which I allowed to shack up with me, etc. Then a very odd thing happened.
It was uncanny. Now I can relax at home and watch TV without some silly dame tousling my hair or messing around in the kitchenette. I may even get a cat or a dog for companionship. Sondra is a human being, just like me. Perhaps it never can be. Nevertheless, in the light of what happened last night, my whole concept of her has undergone a change.
I was pretty bushed when I got home after work, and, to tell the truth, I was still brooding about the loss of my address book. As I closed the door and pressed the light switch, this peculiar feeling hit me that there was someone else in the room. I whirled around, and my hunch was right—it was Sondra. She was holding a big bag of groceries in one arm and had a nightie folded over the other.
You called those girls! To my surprise, tears sprang to my own eyes, hardened cynic though I am. In her blind, fumbling way, Sondra had risked everything to express her devotion.
Parodies Sex and the Single Girl Women. Read More. Why We Laugh—or Do We? The Browning-Off of Pelham Manor.