Malden High School - Maldonian Yearbook (Malden, MA)

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THE MALDONIAN boyish bob—the victim of the half-time mania, and an undying adoration for Chrysler roadsters and heavy collegiates. In short, Jimmy was look¬ ing for his ideal—a quiet, retiring type of girl who renounced popular slang as low and vulgar—a girl who would rather waltz than Charleston— a girl who preferred walking occasionally to riding continually—a girl who didn’t live on chocolate fudge marshmallow, walnut sundaes, and banana royals—a girl who had sense enough not to bob her hair—a really feminine type of girl who needed a protector. She alone was Jimmy’s ideal. But ideals seemed few and far between in this age and generation and so, ever since the break with Janet, Jimmy had haunted the “stag” line repeatedly, watching and waiting for “her”. (Strange that it never occured to him that he could hardly expect an “ideal” to frequent a place like the Bungalow!) Tom listened attentively to all this, a whimsical smile playing about the corners of his mouth and, in his eyes, a twinkle which, despite the darkness, Jimmy did not fail to notice. “You think I’m a little cracked, don’t you, Tom?” Jimmy concluded. “You think it’s about time I purchased a one-way ticket for Danvers.” “I think you’re going to have a tough time finding an angel outside of Paradise!” Tom replied with a slow wink. “I’m not fooling, Tom. I’m serious!” Jimmy insisted. “I’m through with Janet and every girl like her!” “Come on in and dance!” ejaculated Tom, changing the topic of con¬ versation with such abruptness that Jimmy began to comply before the full significance of the request dawned upon him. At the doorway he paused. “There’s no one in there that I’d—that —”, but he faltered, his eyes glued upon the south end of the hall. “Tom,” he tugged Maynard forward roughly, “Tom—look! There’s the girl I’ve just been telling you about. Over there—the little one with the curly hair.” “What girl?” Tom’s memory was exasperatingly short, Jimmy thought. “Why, my—my—er—my ideal!” “Come on in and dance!” repeated Tom with a short laugh, and this time Jimmy hesitated not a moment. II. How it happened, he never knew. It might have been an act of Providence or, what was still more probable, it might have been in some way connected with the numerous introductions which he vaguely re¬ membered, the hazy memories of waiting in the “stag” line, and cut-in dances. At any rate, before Jimmy realized it, she—the“ideal”, of course— was in his arms and the orchestra was rendering “If I Had a Girl Like You” with such expression and enthusiasm that, in the ecstacy of the moment, Jimmy lost his voice and they danced in silence. Her name was Margaret. A very nice name for an ideal, Jimmy decided, if one didn’t shorten it to the frivolous and popular “Peggy”. As he gazed at her upturned face, he noted with approval the blond, wavy Page 88

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THE MALDONIAN An Ideal Elizabeth Barrett Jimmy Hardwick cast a baneful glance about the crowded dance hall. His upper lip curled in a scornful sneer, and he smiled derisively. Every expression of his usually jovial countenance suggested utter and unlimited contempt. With a shrug of one shoulder, he deserted the “stag” line and made his way toward the door. “Where to, Jim?” a masculine vo ice called after him with all the brevity and conciseness that characterizes the modern vocabulary. Jimmy motioned toward the outer door. “Smoke!” he said shortly and dragged forth a silver cigarette case. “Have one?” “Thanks.” And another member of the “stag” line was numbered among the missing. Outside, the September moon shone brightly on the veranda of the Bungalow. Jimmy sank down into a wicker porch chair, placed his feet on the piazza railing, and proceeded, rather mechanically, to light his cigarette. He seemed to gain comfort from the smoke curling silently from his lips, for he watched its course upward with a slow, meditative stare. His companion stirred uneasily. “What’s the trouble, Jim?” he asked at length. You aren’t yourself to night. You look like a castastrophe about to happen! Having an attack of the blues? You and I are pals, you know. ‘Honest confession is good for the soul’, old man, and I’m a good listener.” Jimmy shook his head. “There’s nothing the matter.” Tom Maynard laughed knowingly. “Nothing? Then tell me w r hy Janet is here with Ted Gordon tonight instead of with you.” “Because he asked her, and I didn’t, I suppose”, replied Jimmy curtly. “You—why, Jim”, Tom halted—puzzled, “Jim, you haven’t broken up—you and Janet?” “Precisely!” Jimmy’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Quite a little Sherlock, aren’t you?” “Oh, I didn’t mean to probe into your private affairs. I’m sorry, of course. I knew something was wrong and I couldn’t help showing a little friendly interest.” The repentant note in Tom’s voice quickly melted the ice of Jimmy’s reserve and he burst forth with a complete recital of his most recent disappointment. Jimmy was tired of the kind of girl of which Janet was typical—the modern girl with the self-assertive manner, the abbrevi ated dress, the Page 87

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THE MALDONIAN luxuriance of her unbobbed tresses, the delicate rose and white of her baby-like complexion, the deep blue-violet of her wide, questioning eyes, the long, sweeping lashes! Perfection!—and the Hardwick ideal! It was in the middle of the waltz that Jimmy finally found courage to speak. “I wish I were with you tonight”, he murmured. “It’s tough to think of another fellow taking you home!” She laughed liquidly. “Bob is only my cousin”, she explained. “You may take me home if you wish.” Jimmy caught his breath. “Is that a promise?” She nodded and blinked the deep blue-violet eyes. “Let’s go now, then”, he pleaded. “It’s hot in here —awfully crowd¬ ed—besides I’d like to talk to you—and—maybe—besides—perhaps—!” He checked his rapid speech unceremoniously. Surely this was not the correct manner in which to approach his “ideal”! “Anyway,” he con¬ tinued, “let’s go now.” Some poet—he must have been a famous poet—once remarked that “the longest way ’round was the sweetest way home” and Jimmy had adopted his opinion unreservedly. With a golden-haired ideal beside him and an Indian-summer moon above, who would not have agreed with the philosophy of both the poet and Jimmy? Under the spreading branches of an oak which overhung the roadway, Jimmy brought the car to a halt. The ideal breathed a deep-drawn sigh. “This is marvelous!” she exclaimed softly. “I’m so glad we left the dance! I abhor waltzing! It’s so obsolete! You know,’’she added breath¬ lessly, “you’d be a fairly good dancer if you’d only learn half-time.” Jimmy uttered a smothered exclamation which sounded surprisingly like, “Well, f’r the, love o’Mike!” “I beg your pardon?” queried the ideal. “I said, ‘Really?” Jimmy hastened to explain. An awkward silence followed the last remark, broken only by the ideal’s humming “Sweet Georgia Brown” and tapping her fingertips on the windshield to keep time. Jimmy gazed at her thoughtfully while grave doubts formulated in his mind. Somehow the rose and white com¬ plexion began to resemble with startling similitude certain patented com¬ plexions advertised in magazines and drug-store windows. She was the first to speak. “I suppose you’re a college man?” she ventured. “Yes. Sophomore at Harvard.” (More grave doubts arising.) “Oh—oh, how romantic!” And the wide, deep blue-violet eyes closed in rapture. Baffled, Jimmy regarded his companion narrowly. He was slightly disappointed, but still, she did have pretty hair! He commented upon it in as careless a manner as he could assume. “Oh, it isn’t really long”, she gurgled. “I do it up with side-pieces because the bob is so —so obsolete.” How she loved that word! Jimmy shuddered, and steeled himself for his next remark. “It’s curly anyway”, he persisted doggedly. Page 89