As she started toward the counter, Ted thought fleetingly of asking her to have dinner some night. And then immediately lost heart. Besides, he was indentured to The Marathon from five till ten-thirty every day of the week. And he was certain she had a boyfriend. A girl like that could have her pick of anyone.
To welcome the arrival of spring, Professor Levine gave Ted’s Latin class an unscheduled reading of the glorious hymn
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
November 4, 1955
Long before I came to Harvard I dreamed of being a chorus girl.
Not only is it a lot of laughs, but it’s also a great way to meet women.
For over a century now the Hasty Pudding Club has been producing an annual all-male musical comedy. The authors are usually the best wits in the college (that’s how Alan J. Lerner ’40 trained to write
But the show’s legendary status is not due to the quality of the script, but rather the quantity of the chorus line. For this unique corps de ballet is peopled by brawny preppie jocks in drag, kicking up their hairy muscular legs.
After its Cambridge run, this mindless and fairly gross extravaganza makes a brief tour of cities selected for the hospitality of their alumni and, most important, the nubility of their daughters.
I remember years ago, when my dad first took me to one of these productions, thinking the thundering hoof beats of the can can guys would quite literally bring down the house. They made that whole wooden building on Holyoke Street tremble.
This year’s production (the 108th) is called
Anyway, the first afternoon of tryouts looked like an elephants’ convention. I mean, some of the football players made a crewman like Wigglesworth seem sylphlike by comparison. There was no question that all these mastodons were dying to be one of Lady Godiva’s chambermaids — which is how they were going to dress this year’s Rockettes.
I knew the competition would be rough, so I worked out with weights (toe raises and squats) to beef up my leg muscles in hopes of getting them to look incongruous enough to make the grade.
We each got about a minute to sing something, but I think the whole issue was decided in the split second when we were asked to roll up our trousers.
They called us alphabetically, and, with knees knocking, I walked up on stage to sing a snatch of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” in my very lowest baritone.
I sweated for two days waiting for them to post the cast list this afternoon.
It contained two surprises.
Neither Wig nor I got to be chambermaids. Mike — to his eternal glory — captured the coveted role of Fifi, Lady Godiva’s debutante daughter.
And J — O shame! — was cast as Prince Macaroni, one of the suitors for his hand.
“Great,” Mike enthused, “I’m actually rooming with one of my costars.”
I was not amused. I was thinking that I’d failed again.
I wasn’t even man enough to be a girl.
It was the usual Friday night at The Marathon. Every table was packed with chattering Harvard men and their dates. Socrates urged his staff to hurry along since there was a vast crowd of people standing outside waiting their turn. Up front near the cashier’s desk there seemed to be some argument going on. Socrates called across to his elder son in Greek, “Theo, go and help your sister.”
Ted hastened to the rescue. As he approached, he could hear Daphne protesting, “Look, I am terribly sorry but you must have misunderstood. We never take reservations on the weekends.”
But the tall, supercilious preppie in the Chesterfield coat seemed quite adamant that he had booked a table for 8:00 P.M. and was not about to stand outside on Mass. Avenue with (in so many words) the hoi polloi. Daphne was relieved to see her brother arrive.
“What’s going on, sis?” Ted asked.
“This gentleman insists he had a reservation, Teddy. And you know our policy about weekends.”
“Yes,” Ted responded, and turned immediately to the protesting client to explain, “we would never —”
He stopped in mid-sentence when he noticed who was standing next to the irate, distinguished-looking man.
“Hi, Ted,” said Sara Harrison, who was manifestly embarrassed at her escort’s rudeness. “I think Alan’s made a mistake. I’m terribly sorry.”
Her date glared at her.
“I don’t make such errors,” he stated emphatically, and immediately turned back to Ted. “l cafled yesterday evening and spoke to some woman. Her English wasn’t very good so I was quite explicit.”
“That must have been Mama,” Daphne offered.
“Well, Mama should have written it down,” insisted the punctilious Alan.
“She did,” said Ted, who now had a large reservations book in his hand. “Are you Mr. Davenport?”
“I am,” said Alan. “Do you see my reservation for eight o’clock?”
“Yes. It’s listed for last night, Thursday — when we do accept reservations. Look.” He offered the document.
“How can I read that, man? It’s in Greek,” he protested.
“Then ask Miss Harrison to read it to you.”
“Don’t involve my date in your mess-up, waiter.”
“Please, Alan, he’s a friend of mine. We’re both in classics. And he’s right.” Sara pointed to the approximation of “Davenport” scribbled by Mrs. Lambros for eight o’clock the previous night. “You must have forgotten to tell her it was for the next day.”
“Sara, what on earth is the matter with you?” Alan snapped. “Are you taking some illiterate woman’s word against mine?”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Ted, reining in his temper as best he could. “I’m sure my mother is no less literate
