The Incredible Adventures of Dino

In the spring a light young man turns to fancy thoughts of taking his activities out onto the leather seat of his convertible. Sometimes it is only imitation leather; but then often, alas, it is only imitation activities.

Dino Durbin was tired of prostituting his poetic talents at writing the blurbs on the back of Coolster record albums, especially since he was paid only enough to support a 1949 Buick convertible of which the top had converted downwards definitively in 1952. Girls loved him in the sun; when it rained or suddenly cooled, they cooled toward him, despite the stock of used raincoats which he offered to gather about them.

"As I said about that Zeke Smith group, honey, no, it was Rootie Jones and his Hot Flashes, you're a masterpiece of synchronization and chilled passion ----"

"If you don't either get that top up or me out of the rain, dig, I'll run out onto the road and lie there until a passing motorist picks me up." This was Norrie speaking, tousle-haired, sullen, golden-haired Norrie.

"Like I said, chilled passion," said Dino, coaxing the motor to start, adjusting the poncho over Norrie's electric cropped head, and deciding that he was giving up band chicks from here on in. On to better and smaller things! he thought. "I'm going back to graduate," he said moodily.

"Gradgewaite? Where's that? I thought you came from Ashtabula."

"No, collitch," he said, pronouncing (continued on page 76) Dino (continued from page 71) toothily so that she would understand. "I'm going to better myself."

"Yes, go better yourself a little, Dino honey. You're never too old to learn."

"I'm twenty-seven. I'm healthy. I can get a crewcut and take a couple courses. Like that, I'll learn to advance myself in my chosen field of endeavor, writing lies about musicians on record jackets." He gave her his profile as they moved down the country road; the rain took a slant, and down it swirled, through his eyebrows, sideburns, under his own poncho, and trickled into his suit, where some but not enough of it was absorbed by the strap of his Ivy League pants.

"A-chew," said Norrie. "Better than spending the money on a summer session, dig me, you should fix the top of this wagon. However, rest assured that I'll be true to you until you return."

And her mouth came apart in peals of wild ironic laughter.

• • •

A few days later, young, forward-looking, ambitious Dino Durbin was masquerading as a young, forward-looking, ambitious young man on the campus of Powdermilk University. Having prepared several jacket blurbs in advance, leaving only the names of the outfits blank, he persuaded his boss, Jake Durbin (who also, as luck would have it, happened to be his father) that a leave of absence was for the good of the company. Jake checked his last bit of copy and OKd the leave, and now, in a class in modern poetry, Dino was trying to forget his most recent prose poem:

"Hex Spot has a real swinging group of the new archifrigido school. When discovered in the back room of the Swift meat packers, his musical efforts still showed traces of the bleating of the disappointed lambs who are demoted into Spam, but gradually he has learned to use his trumpet in a less introspective manner, while retaining all the thoughtfulness which characterizes this movement. Not that Hex wishes to disown entirely the frantic exhalations of Bartók, Brubeck, and the Swift piggypen, but he has something unique on his mind, and with the unusual combo of (3, 4, 5, 6, 7 -- check exact no.) men, he manages to express the supreme pathos of our time in such a number as the highly controlled Wolley Segap. (Yes, this is Yellow Pages spelled backwards.) It may be some while before the squares at Newport, Cape Canaveral, or the Café Bohemia learn which end is up, but ..."

Jake Durbin had studied the electro-typed sheet. "You've earned a rest, son," said Jake. "Go."

Dino dodged the brass paperweight thrown by his father, and went.

Now he was listening to Michael Main-waring, well-known young critic, lecturing about how only those who appreciate today's music can absorb a true sense of contemporary life and poetry. "You must not get out of touch," said Main--waring. "The day of the ivory tower is past. Attention, attention must be paid modern man! Go out and purchase a record of Muggsy Spanier or Glenn Miller -- play it on your gramophone -- hear the beat of today's hearts. Those who say that Porgy and Bess will never sell are wrong! I predict a great success for Gershwin, as well as for the poetry of T. S. Eliot, W. H. Auden, and if the fates only will it, yours truly."

He bowed modestly, took up his straw boater and his bamboo cane, and exited backwards in his version of a youthfully insouciant step (modified Charleston). "Why do you suppose he does that?" Dino mused aloud.

"Obsession," said a lithe young voice behind him. It could be described as a lithe young voice because it bent around his ego, peeled off the protective coating, and left the libido bare and quivering. It was the voice of Saralee Sanders, smiling and happy young daughter of a former commander in the Navy who had unexpectedly illuminated her childish innocence by strangling her mother. She told Dino all this within a few minutes. "Pop loved me too much, thus wanted me all to himself. Mom got in the way. She really had to go. I used to ambition for being a band singer, but now I want only the quiet life of a devoted intellectual, retired from the world. Do you like my hair? I think ponytails are coming back. At the trial Pop said he broke Mom's esophagus because she talked too much, but that couldn't be, because each and every member of our family is positively taciturn. Not a word, I mean. He must have been lying is how I dope it out. You're Dino Durbin, aren't you?"

"Would you like to fall out for some coffee?" asked Dino as soon as he could plant the suggestion.

It grew.

"Yes," said Saralee. "I started to say about Mainwaring's obsession, Dino -- that walking out backwards jazz. It's because he's afraid of being surprised from the rear. Aren't people gooses? When you know Freud and all, I mean. I mean geese. I've been analyzed and I understand about such things. I think incest is square, don't you? I'd love some coffee. Cream, no sugar."

On the way out, down the sweet winding paths of a Vermont campus, Saralee brushed lightly against Dino, chattering all the while with the gay abandon of girlish flirtation about neurosis, poetry, hydrogen fallout. Dino wished she would bump him that way some more. His self-confidence was returning with each nudge and jiggle, gradually, after the cumulative shock of the many Norries who objected to his unconvertible convertible; and when Saralee slipped off her shoes as they sat sipping coffee, caressed him gently with her toes, and even snagged a toenail in his Argyle socks, he felt that graduate work toward a Ph.D. lay exactly in his line.

"You don't mind, do you?" Saralee asked.

"No, I can always get new socks."

"I mean about reading poetry aloud to each other for the oral sound of it. Poetry has an oral dimension, you know."

"Yes, in showbiz we add words to music in order to make what we call 'songs.' "

"Oh I've heard of that. Hm. 'Songs.' Caedmon records has some songs. Combines poem and chords, doesn't it? Im pure medium, no? But about that toe-work, my analyst cured me of the obsession. I used to always feel for men's ankles with my feet. It used to be neurotic Now that I'm healthy I only do it for kicks, that's the college word for 'fun,' in case you didn't know------"

"I dig."

"What? Huh? You say something? A penny for clarification of your innermost psychic dialog, Dino."

Naturally this sweet and nubile lass, softly walking, leaning her hand lightly upon his arm, talking to a cooperative tune, caused thoughts to arise in Dino's turbulent young male breast. Thoughts of long walks and deep communication, thoughts of promises and fulfillment, thoughts of SILENCE, BLESSED SILENCE, in the arms of the strangler's favorite daughter.

She also had her own car with a top which went up and down by a button. She explained how it worked and suggested that Dino try pressing her button. He tried, and she slapped his face. "Later, sillykins," she said. "Not that button. You've hardly said anything to me at all about yourself, and here I've told you so much, confided in you ... Aside from the strangle slaying, I come from a good family. We always answer our letters from the Reader's Digest and pay our rent on the first. I want you to meet Pop as soon as they let him out."

"I ambition to," said Dino.

But her face darkened. "Only they've extended his sentence because of what he did in the shower room at the Pen. I don't think he meant anything by it, do you? He was just trying to be friendly."

"A solid chap, I'm sure. Those boys just don't understand true friendliness. They've lost their primal innocence."

"He's willing to turn the other cheek, why aren't they? No charity. Do you like Miles Davis?"

Saralee had her little way of changing the subject, but Dino determined to get used to it. Everyone has habits, and (continued on page 80) Dino (continued from page 76) after all, you don't often find a beautiful, charming and cooperative girl your first day back in summer school. Beautiful (honeyblonde hair, honeytanned skin, laughing eyes and plump lips) and charming (educated, sophisticated, her own car) she was; and cooperative she seemed to be (that trick of leaning, walking, looking into his eyes). "Say, you seem to be getting a little conjunctivitis," she said. "Reminds me of my pop. I got just the drops for you."

Dazzled and head-lightened by such luck, Dino let himself be led back to Saralee's apartment. It was a magnificent sublet, with French windows opening onto a view of the Vermont hills. She opened them, stretched her arms toward the Green Mountains, took a deep breath, put some records on the phonograph, and said, "I'm going to slip into something more comfortable."

"What?" A negligee, thought Dino, guessing hopefully.

"Oh, I think I'll slip into some Zoot Sims. This uptown jazz makes me jitter a little." She pressed the reject nob on the phonograph. "Lie down, please."

"Aw, Saralee, don't be so modern. Let me take the initiative, will you?"

"I got the zincfrin for your eyes," she announced. "It'll knock 'em out. Lie down."

Blissfully Dino stretched himself onto the couch. (He was a modern man after all.) Once again life seemed worthwhile, after all the ills the flesh is heir to -- broken shoelaces, toilet paper that won't unwind, damp socks, stuck convertible tops, a domineering father. A life needs focus. Dino was reading great poetry in order to rise above his troubles, and now Saralee, who was a little poem herself, bent over him with an anxious look and a dropper in her hand. Plop, plop. Two drops in each eye. It stung. "Ouch!" said Dino, and reached for Saralee.

She comforted him, stroked his hair, and then slapped his face. It was the same reaction that she had had in the car when Dino had wanted to try out her gadgets. She was willing to whisper sweet sick jokes into his ear, but not sweet nothings. "Aw," he said, quoting Immortal Poems of the English Language, edited by Oscar Williams: "My Love is like to Ice, and I to Fire."

"That's Edmund Spenser," said Saralee, "and it means you want to cop a feel. No baby. No sir. In the first place, Spenser (1552-1599) is vieux jeu and very square, and in the second place, my poor dead mother told me only to kiss the man I intend to marry. Otherwise it's unsanitary."

"Who said anything about kissing? Besides, I could brush my teeth."

"I don't care, I'll get a Bad Reputation." Saralee's mouth wore that plump yes-I-will-and-no-I-won't pout. "Who are you," she asked, "who are you to drive me toward ruin in a car with a top that doesn't fold back up neatly? Sometimes those disbarred illegal doctors make you wait outside in the rain. Your move, Dino." And she stopped and showed her teeth. This was an argument she hoped to lose.

"Better get wet with me than be bored and contract horrible Tired Blood," said Dino.

Saralee paused as if considering the remedy he proposed. She sighed. She looked into the brink, turned away dizzy, declared: "Just because I'm a coed you don't have to think I'm one of Those Girls, just because I have such a luscious suntan, just because I'm so well stacked." And Saralee extended her fingernails and examined them carefully, from several angles, as if they were mirrors.

"We'll have to look into this," said Dino.

Saralee contemplated Dino bleakly. He did not seem to understand. "Course it's different," she said, "if a person is like going steady. Then a person has a duty to find out if a person is soulmates with a person. What kind of pin you wear?"

"I'm not pledged yet. I'm sort of old for the fraternity life."

"You're never, not ever too old for literature and Sagma Tao, the Zen hipster frat. If you'll give up Edmund Spenser, not to mention Oscar Williams, you can probably get in on the strength of your literary attainments. Tell something to your little friend: are hip and hep the same things, mon? What do you think of By Love Possessed? Do you have a cigarette?"

Lighting her at the end which gives you more of what you pay for a filter for, Dino said, "It's a great number. I heard Rootie Jones and his Hot Flashes premeer it on their Vegetable Compound Show, direct from Nashville." Dino chanted the lyrics for Saralee:

Ah'm glad ya possessed me

Guz naow Ah'm By Love Possessed

And so it came to pass that, for love of Saralee Sanders, Dino joined the hippest frat on campus, Sagma Tao. It shall be noted here that the founder of the frat, Old Tao Sagma, the mon himself, preached the exchange of essences; that is, that opposites attract; that is, in translation from the original San Franciscan, "He Who Wants To Get There Best, Must Not Come Around From Behind." (The translation by Constance Garnett was somewhat stiff at the comma. It corners well, however, and has two speeds in reverse.)

Back to our lovers in suspended animadversion. The basic truths of life were being given a hard time by Saralee. Going steady did not seem to mean as much to her as it did to Dino. "Do you think we can catch a fresh trio this weekend? Let's drive to town," she asked.

"Oh my, but I'd rather just spend the day in the library, and then have a milkshake," said Dino.

As you can see, they were learning from each other.

" -- smooching," said Dino.

"Or trying hard to," Saralee said. "But I do dearly love a single gold band, don't you?"

Conflicting currents were running in the hearts and minds of Dino and Saralee. Dino wanted to celebrate that holiday which comes whenever a man can make it come; Saralee wanted to set a date for it, and make it public. At the same time, during their hours together Dino was becoming interested in poetry and books -- for the sake of books and poetry. And Saralee was growing bewitched by the glamor of singing before a big band (a quintet) or a little intimate combo (five men). This too was for the sake of ideals.

"But I wanted to get away from all that -- the music biz and Norrie and longplays," Dino protested. "It's not real. The band chicks even got falsies that jiggle."

"But little me, I wanted something more in life than A in lit and B-plus in creative writing ... But Norrie? Norrie who? WHO NORRIE?"

"Oh cripes," said Dino.

"You have a past!" said Saralee, eyes narrowing, pointing an accusing finger at Dino.

He blushed. "Yup," he admitted. "Time Wounds All Heels."

She fell into his arms. "Why didn't you tell me? I want to hear all about it. Did you hurt her terribly? Darling," she said, rubbing her hands through his hair, then taking his hand and rubbing it over her. "Oooh, you thrill me."

Now at this point we must introduce an essential element in Dino's character: he was not a stupe. He was not even a dope. He was hip and he was smart. He knew the story of Pygmalion, and how the weary old Greek tried to make a perfect woman from rather damp, un promising clay, and of the trouble this caused everybody. It occurred to Dino that he did not want trouble. A little bit of itchy trouble, yes; but a whole lot of crawly trouble, no. He was not born to play Pygmalion.

"Pardon, kid," he said, "I got to send a wire."

He went home and thought and thought and thought. At last he remem bered what he had said to Saralee: "Got to send a wire." It occurred to him that he might as well do it. He dictated to Western Union over the telephone in his modest little apartment: Be With Me Beauty For The Fire Is Dying John Masefield Circa 1900 How About A Weekend On Campus Wire Reply Dino.

If women are going to be all alike, thought Dino, maybe Norrie whom I know is a bit smarter than Saralee, whom I know too well. In other words, stop running and see. Try her patiently. Wait. Watch. Get the top to the convertible fixed.

Norrie arrived, looking good. He recognized her by the size 36-D cups. "You are more beautiful," he cried, "than the morning star. Hair like threaded gold! Eyes piercing to the undersoul! Nose by Hellenic sculpture! Bazoom by Jayne Mansfield! Touch like flame! Feet as to a gazelle's, swiftly running! Gown by Balenciaga!"

She stared at him, her mouth slightly open, eyes bugged. She sniffed the air for the fragrance of clove gum.

"Your voice is perfection without echo chamber or Luboff chorus! Eyes by hyperthyroid! Your tongue is sweet as the rose and red as sugar, only vice versa! When you kiss, your aroma ----"

"By Ponds," she said. "You really been to college, nescafé? Will you write jacket blurbs like that for me? Will you? Will you write them? You will?"

"Yes," he said.

"OK," she snapped. "But will you please goddammit talk like a human being when you're only talking?"

The weekend passed in several days. It was good to renew auld acquaintance, but Dino now realized that, like Dick Whittington, he had to make his fortune before he could be worthy of Norrie, Saralee or Felicity (who worked in the library) . He remembered Shakespeare's (1564-1616) command, "Absent thee from Felicity a while." He must go back to the city and prove himself. He sent Norrie away. He explained to Saralee. He dawdled by Felicity's desk in the library.

Tears filled Saralee's eyes, and tenderly Felicity sighed, "Goodbye, baby, goodbye. Goodbye, honest Iago. Have a good time, Dino (1928-?) ."

Felicity only added, "You'll be charged three cents a day for each overdue book."

He left college for the last time.

This time, however, he hoped to prove himself by not working for father. His father understood, and contributed to the feeling of independence by taking away his gasoline credit card, his allowance, and a tie he had lent him last Easter. "Prodigal, return!" cried his dad. "But if you don't, then starve, Buster."

Dino felt this pressure as crass but making a certain sense. Fortunately he had lifetime subscriptions to his favorite magazines, but there are other needs! Other hungers! Rent, food, clothes, quarters for the washing machines, pennies for girls' thoughts, buffered aspirins for after the girl gives you her thoughts. Popular songs seemed like a way to make a living for a man who had sincere-type commercial feelings, and so he managed to use his influence to get Tib Greenleaf to record a sure-fire number, The Lord Loves a Happy Man. But the song bombed. It came in just between calypso and rockabilly, missed the religious upbeat season, and the Comfort label went bankrupt.

Then he used his influence with performers to find a brief substitute job as disc jockey in Chicago: "Hi y'all to all you fellas out there in radioland, and to those of you fellas who are mothers with growing children and doing the washing today, I see by the calendarland it's washdayland in Old Chicagosville. Well, you fellas ought to try the new detergent, Detergentsville ..."

But this too did not satisfy his yearning for creative fulfillment; i.e., they failed to renew his contract

Finally he returned to New York to visit his father, the mogul, titan, and Nimrod of the pay-your-own-way song business. Most of the composers of Coolster numbers were true artists who would not accept royalties. His father greeted him in friendly fashion, all his peccadillos forgiven. (Dino had sent his father a live peccadillo from the Everglades.) "Son," said Jake Durbin, "tell me what you want out of life. I'm in a theoretical mood today. The income tax people just finished going over one of my sets of books and I'm clean as a whistle."

"Congrats, pops," said Dino.

"Well, Jeez, I was lucky. You can't lose 'em all. But tell me."

Dino formulated his thoughts crisply. "Well, daddy-o, and you really are my daddy-o, pops, I just want the simple American things -- friendly spouse, kiddies, cottage with the white picket fence, power lawn mower, electric knife sharpener ----"

"Musical, eh? I like that." Pops nodded solemnly. "But what about the girl? You got some chick in mind for wiving purposes, son?"

Dino explained that this department was not yet filled. It was difficult. There were two girls, Saralee and Norrie, very different types. Opposite ends of the spectrum. Nothing at all alike. One was a band singer and the other one wanted to be a band singer.

"Hum," said his daddy. "This is a serious problem. I didn't know you made out so well. Chip off the. Tell you what, we'll audition them both. You take me in as a partner there in that department, and I'll make you a partner in the business, the money department. I'm getting older, son. I'm slowing down. I'm not the man I used to be ... In other words, I like tender young girls." He gnashed his teeth; he sniveled. "Let's be pals, son," he said. "Lead me to them."

Thus it happened that Dino Durbin, after many vicissitudes and disappointments, became a self-made man in the recording and publishing business. Do you think a man rises to the rank of music publisher because he has a song in his heart, a cigar in his mouth, and a sneaky bookkeeper? It is not so simple and the path is fraught with pain and trouble.

Take Dino Durbin, for example. He lost both Norrie and Saralee to his father. Turned out that they liked sincere-type, mature-type men with graying sideburns and power machinery to cut through the glory road. Dino wrote jacket copy for both of them, however, and received autographed photographs in return, "For Dearest Darling Dino." Saralee added: "From your stepmother."

As soon as he could get the convertible top repaired, he would take out Felicity and try for true love once more. She seemed to be a sweet, young thing, laconic and lovable, with no ambitions to rival Rosemary Clooney. At least he had never caught her singing in the shower. Sad to say, he had not yet caught her in the shower at all.