Young Men Old Money

This is the Alpha Delta fraternity house at Dartmouth College, Hanover, New Hampshire. The brothers are standing outside on their balcony, ready to serenade me. Sing, boys!

"Iowa! Iowa!"

"Wait------"

"That's where the tall corn grows!"

"Corn? What are they singing about corn for?"

"Iowa! Iowa!".

"This is the East. This is the Ivy League," I say, laughing.

"Get'em up! Get'em up! Get'em up!"

"Oh, no."

"Iowa! Iowa!"

"They're taking off--they're all dropping their pants!"

"That's where the tall corn grows!"

"Oh! Heavens!" I yell.

"Get'em up! Get'em up! Get'em up!"

"They're dropping their under-p-p-p------Gracious! What a tribute!"

"Iowa! Iowa!"

God, I love college.

I love college so much I still have dreams of my old boyfriend, Mike Troy, the great Indiana University Olympic swimming star, at the Phi Kappa Psi fraternity house, clasping me--a virgin Pi Phi, a virtual anomaly at an American university--in his embrace, the flounces of my gown caught between his legs; or I am lying in my Miss Indiana University crown in the back seat of Mike's, the Divinity of Bloomington's, Fairlane, in the Phi Kappa Psi parking lot, across from the Kinsey Institute of Sexual Behavior.

Usually, I have those dreams or the one where Mike rises out of the pool at the N.C.A.A. championships, his snappy red swimming suit sucked against his young body, his thick gold medals hanging almost to the floor.

That is the college I dream about. It bears no resemblance to the college I discover when I am asked to go out to Dartmouth and take stock of America's future corporate leaders. Mike Troy has gone into real estate in San Francisco. But it is not the same thing.

•

The Psi Upsilons are ragging me because I can't take them all out to dinner. It's Friday night, they say. Why don't you have dates? I say. After dinner, they say. After dinner? Isn't anybody in love? I say. They all look at Ned and start banging him on the head. Ned is big, tall and the son of a director of one of the largest stock-brokerage houses in America. He raises his shoulders and turns bright red.

"I'm really, I'm really not," he says.

"You're not in love?" I say.

The sides of his nose break out in perspiration.

"No," he says.

This puts everybody in the mood for a little slam pong, so we go down to the basement. Twenty or 25 Psi U.s are in the basement, with the music blaring. The Psi Upsilons (Nelson Rockefeller was a Psi U. here) are the oldest (1842) fraternity at Dartmouth, and they have beer on tap, a polyurethane dance floor, an ice rink in the front yard and are known on campus as the rich, preppie assholes.

They squeegee off the pong table.

"Why don't you take us all out to dinner under the pretext of interviewing us?" says the Moss Man.

"I'd love to------" I say.

"Great," says the Moss Man.

"But I have only two hundred dollars for my whole stay at Dartmouth."

"Listen, Jean," says Moss Man. The Moss Man is a fine, tall figure, wears his hair combed to the side, skis for Dartmouth and is interviewing with investment banks, commercial banks and a few consulting firms in New York City, and says I should call playboy and say I am going to need a (Continued on page158) Young Men (continued from page78) few thousand dollars. A guy named Philo, who is going into international finance, comes and stands beside us, with a beer on the back of his head, and bends at the waist and bobs up and down with a happy expression.

"Do you know any managing directors of large investment banks?" says the Moss Man to me.

God bless them! I think, these boys are a different sex, entirely.

"No," I say.

The Moss Man is surprised but suave.

"I don't know any bankers," I say.

"Really?" says the Moss Man, downcast but smiling with the strictest gallantry. "That's too bad."

•

Investment-banking companies come up to Dartmouth, says a Psi U., and you can get a job without ever leaving campus.

"You just put on your nice little two-piece suit," says the Psi U., "your Air Mays tie, your------"

"Your what?" I say.

"Air Mays," says the Psi U.

"Hair maze? What's that?" I say.

"Air Mays," says the Psi U. "It's a French------"

"Air Mays ties?" I say.

"H-E-R-M-È-S," says the Psi U.

"Oh! OK. OK. All right. [Laughing] Judas!"

"Her Meez," says the Psi U. through his nose. "They have the bags, the scarves, the ties and all that."

•

The guys want to go to 5 Olde Nugget Alley for dinner, but some girls from the sorority house across the street come down to the basement, and Ned runs over to the cutest one, slumps against the wall and, holding his hands in his armpits, looks down with a frightened stare into her face.

"Are they in another fight?" says Todd.

"Is this a fight?" says Philo.

"Are they fighting?" repeats Todd.

"Is this a fight?" says the Moss Man when Ned comes back.

"No, it is not a fight," says Ned.

After the girls leave, we go over to 5 Olde and get a table for 11. We order a round of iced teas and the guys pass the tape recorder back and forth and interview one another, and then they take out my notebook and write down the definitions of crack ("huge bitch") and grimbo ("very ugly girl; syn: crack--usually fat"). I say those are nice, and then one of the guys says they should do a definition for spank. "No!" shouts Robbie D. He dives across an empty chair. "Don't fucking put that!" He grabs the edge of the notebook and rips out a page, but it is blank.

"What's a spanking?" I say.

"Well, God!" says Robbie D. He pulls off his ski hat and throws it onto the table. His hair pops up, blond and very curly.

"She's a journalist," says Alex to Robbie D., nodding in my direction. "She knows about shit." Robbie D. glances around, his hair springing in all directions. "So what the hell," says Alex, lowering his voice, "is spanking to her?"

"Yes. What is spanking?" I say.

My companions have conferred on the definition and pass me the notebook.

"How is that going to faze her?" says Alex.

I look down and read, Spank: To Wank the Bologna.

Robbie D. shrugs sternly.

"Now she thinks we're a bunch of wankers," he says.

•

The iced teas have gin, vodka, tequila, rum, triple sec, sour mix and Coca-Cola in them, and we have another round. The waitress is a short, robust girl who laughs and says I had better watch out when she hears the check is on me. The Psi U.s have a round or two more of dessert iced teas, and in between, we have dinner. When the bill comes, the Moss Man socks himself on the forehead. "Oh, my God!" he shouts. He gazes at the ceiling and hands it to me. "We took up your entire meal money." He whacks the table. "I'll talk to playboy," he shouts, "and get this shit squared away!"

"No, no," I say, laughing.

"We can take care of it," says Ned.

"One hundred and seventy dollars!" cries the Moss Man.

"Is the tip included?" I ask.

"They always put the tip on," says the Moss Man.

"Fifty times over," says Tristram.

I count the money in my purse and examine the bill. The tip is not included.

"I have only one hundred and eighty-five dollars," I say, embarrassed. I put the money on the table.

"One hundred and eighty-five," says Tristram. "Perfect."

"It's not enough," I say. "We need a thirty-five-dollar tip."

"It's perfect. Believe me," says Tristram, leaning forward on his elbows. He is a tall, thin young fellow with a flowerlike complexion. "See, most of it is alcohol."

"Ok. Now, who can help me with the tip here?" I say, going through my jacket pockets. I do not have any credit cards.

"If you gave the waitress a thirty-dollar tip," says the Moss Man, lighting up a cigarette, "she'd be running all over town."

"She'd quit her job," says Robbie D. His hair is in such a fizz it cannot control itself. He puts his ski hat back on.

"See, most of it is alcohol," says Tristram. "That's the thing."

I poke in my jeans.

"Just have her give you a receipt," says the Moss Man, pushing back his chair so he can stick out his legs.

"Get the receipt and you're all set," says Tristram.

The Moss Man puffs on the cigarette and lolls back his head. "Tax purposes," he says.

"Yeah," says Tristram. His eyebrows lift his whole snow-white forehead. "If you don't get the receipt, you pay the bill."

•

The guys say dinner was great, but now they have to go hit a couple of parties. I say, well, I guess I'll go catch up on some reading. Robbie D. sits back down. "What was the last book you read?" he says.

"The Decameron," I say, surprised.

"Really? It's good you're interested in the classics," says Robbie D. "It shows your mind is not in the gutter."

"What?" I say.

"Shows your mind is not in the gutter," says Robbie D.

I look around at the Psi U.s to see if he is serious. "Because a lot of people might think it is," says Robbie D.

I glance at him and start to smile. "Because I write for Playboy?" I say.

"Maybe. I mean, not me," says Robbie D. He puckers his golden brows. "But I know a lot of people would."

•

"Jean Carroll.... Are you related to the Carrolls of Maryland?" says a Psi U.

"The Charles Carrolls, signers of the Declaration of Independence?" I say.

"Yes!" he says.

"No," I say.

•

On Saturday, the Psi U.s are upstairs getting ready for their formal and Brades wants to have a little talk with me. Brades is president of the house and grips his. tuxedo shirt at the spot over his heart and looks straight into my face.

"What's the matter?" I say, faintly.

He at once becomes frightened and lowers his eyes.

"Tell me," I say.

He looks at the carpet and says he loves Psi U.

"Ah!" I say.

He is a personable young man, slightly on the tubby side.

What else? I say. A sweat breaks out on his upper lip. He mentions a certain vice. Huh! I say. He hastens to add that none of the Psi U.s have the vice, but a couple of guys now and then get hold of some of the vice and the college is going to rag all over him if an article comes along blowing the vice out of proportion. A long silence ensues. OK, I say, I won't talk about the vice if the guys don't flaunt the vice under my nose. This calms him. I light up a cigarette. Look around for an ashtray.

"An ashtray!" He is amazed. "An ashtray!." he says, retreating with raised arms. He backs into the coatroom and starts ransacking behind the toboggans. "An ashtray!" he cries. "Nobody here smokes!"

•

A tall man with glasses, who turns out to be the dean of the college, shows up at the formal and puts a damper on things by drinking at the bar, stuffing his scarf into his pocket and dancing with the Psi U.s' dates. I am fondly remembering Mike Troy and me at the Pi Beta Phi pledge dance, but the sudden sight of a middle-aged man gives me a nasty shock and I have to sit down by the hors-d'oeuvre table. Solomon Hapte-Selassie, a junior Psi U. and a member of the Ethiopian royal family, brings me an orange juice. Todd, a natty-looking guy in a pink tie and slicked-back hair, sits down beside me. "There's no frat as good and tight as the Psi U.s!" he says. "We have what it takes! That's our house! I might get shelled in investment banking, but I'll make it!"

"Where's your date, Todd?" I say.

"She got drunk and passed out."

•

Formal rush takes place during the first week of the spring term at Dartmouth College, which has 17 fraternities, eight sororities and four coed fraternities. Sixty percent of the male students pledge--one of the highest percentages in the U.S.

"Who gets in?" I ask the brothers. Mack, Clem, Rick, Brades, Brook and Grus are sitting around the chapter room, a heavy, dark, wood-paneled den in the Psi U. house on Sunday afternoon after the formal. "How should the rushees act?" I say. "What should they wear?"

"You wear a navy blazer," says Rick.

"Not a navy blazer," says Mack, " 'cause everybody wears a navy blazer."

"You can wear a Harris tweed," says Rick.

"Right," says Brades.

"But don't wear brand-new shoes," says Mack, who is captain of the squash team.

"Be yourself," says Brades.

"Don't wear a neck brace," says Mack.

"Be conservative," says Clem. "Play it safe. You can do the wild stuff as soon as you're in the house." I look around at the Psi U.s and wonder what the wild stuff could possibly be, and ask if anybody has a bag of pretzels.

"I mean, we let this one guy in the house------" says Clem.

One of the brothers goes upstairs to look for his Ritz crackers.

"And the next day," says Clem, "he shows up in all these really bright colors. And we were kinda bummed at first."

Clem wears an ivy-green crew-neck, green-and-white buttondown, khakis and has a glamorous face with dark, thick blond eyebrows and a scab on the bridge of his nose. "You know," he says--he speaks with a hollow sound on his Ls and Rs--"if he had worn that stuff during rush, he wouldn't have gotten in."

"He was coached," says Rick.

"He was definitely coached," says Clem. "He started off--listen, he came here in the fall, and he was turning people off left and right. Well, someone gave him that feedback. So, like, the winter term, all of a sudden he was low-key. The guy totally changed his dress. And then we went into spring and the beginning of rush and he stayed like that. And people started forgetting how he was and they let him in. But the day after he got his bid------"

"He puts on his Vuarnets," says Rick--Rick is wearing a wine sweater and khakis--"and his, like, sailor pants with bright yellow sailboats on them------"

"A pink shirt ... with the collar up!" cries Clem.

"Awful!" I say. "Terrible!"

"Yeah," says Clem. He throws his leg over the back of the couch. "The really bright preppie. The obnoxious preppie!"

•

Well-known Company Madison Avenue New York, New York

Psi U. Senior 7 West Wheelock Hanover, New Hampshire

Fuck you for taking the time to bore me while I was at Dartmouth last week. While I would like to be more encouraging, I'm afraid I'm not able to invite you to New York for further interviews at this time, or any other time in the foreseeable millennium.

To say that this decision was outr-extremely difficult would be an outrageous lie. I can only tell you it is more a consequence of our deep and personal loathing of you rather than your lack of personl hygiene and vulgar stench.

Again, shame on you for your interest in investigating a career with us and best wishes for fame and for tune in what ever blue-collar position your dad gets for you.

--Doctored Ding Letter, The Ding String, Second-Floor Hall, Psi Upsilon House

•

The Gym, a four-man suite on the second floor of the Psi U. house, down the hall from the Zebra and the God's Single, features a sitting room, a computer room, two bedrooms, a fireplace, a couch with brown-and-gold flowers, a stop light, a Budweiser blackboard, a barometer, a shelf of books, boots, saucepans, Dynafits, Rossignol ST Competitions, K2 Comp 710s, Micron hockey skates, hockey sticks, squash rackets, records, record cleaner, lacrosse sticks, tapes, earphones, amplifiers, speakers, turntables, tape decks, tennis rackets, a climbing helmet, golf clubs, hockey pads, hiking boots, lacrosse gloves, a remote phone-- "Tris! You don't have anything in here."

I am looking in Tristram's closet.

"'Cause it's all on the floor," says Tristram, laughing.

"What kind of sweaters are those?" I say.

He climbs onto a chair and looks at the top shelf of the closet.

"Ummmmmmm," he says, feeling them. "These are just ... I don't wear these much." He runs his hand across the piles. "These are just like...." With a jerk he throws six or seven sweaters in the air. "Just like Argyles and V-necks...." He lobs them out, one after the other. "Shetlands, cables, cashmeres, bulkies...."

•

"What do your parents do?" I ask one of the Psi U.s.

"Well, that's a loaded question," he says.

•

The guys have John Cougar Mellen-camp booming in the basement, and Todd and Tristram have set 30 or 40 beers on the ping-pong tables and have whipped the freshmen up into a little death pong. Solomon Hapte-Selassie, an elegant youth, hurries across the sticky floor and brings me a beer, and a tall Psi U. named Dave comes over and explains that the guys invite a couple of dozen favored freshmen over every Wednesday night after house meeting. "Like, tonight," says Dave, "it's a good bunch. But you wait till formal rush! They'll run in the door. Tons of them! And we can only pick twenty-five."

"Not the cheese dick over there," says Ned.

"Which one?" says the rush chairman. He's playing dice at the bar and moves over to Dave and Ned.

"The cheese dick," says Ned.

"Aw, naw," says the rush chairman, shaking his head.

"Ding him," says Ned. "None of the freshmen like him."

"There's guys in the house who like the guy," says the rush chairman, putting down his beer. The rush chairman is the son of a Dartmouth trustee.

"I'm dinging him," says Ned.

"Why?" I say.

"'Cause he's a dick!" says Ned.

I glance over in the direction they are looking. A medium-sized boy with jaws in the shape of two Bermuda onions is standing with a ping-pong paddle in his hand, with his toes turned out by the wall.

"Well--it only takes four dings ..." says Dave.

"Six dings," says Ned.

"It only takes six dings ..." says Dave.

"Five," says the rush chairman.

"Out of seventy-seven brothers, it takes five dings," says Dave, "And he's out."

"Six," says Ned.

"Five," says the rush chairman.

"Six," says Ned.

"Last year it was five," says the rush chairman.

"It's going to be six this year," says Ned.

"No, it's not," says the rush chairman.

"We already talked about it," says Ned.

"All I'm saying--" says Dave, placidly looking from the rush chairman to Ned.

"Well, none of the freshmen like him," says Ned.

"There are a lot of nice guys down here who would make pretty good brothers," says Dave.

"What's his name, anyway?" says the rush chairman.

"Chip," says Ned.

"Chip?" says the rush chairman.

"Chip Cheese Dick," says Ned.

•

Todd, J.P. and Mark have been in Bride's magazine together, in a wedding shot, and J.P. says there is a lot of pressure in the house when you have a girl.

"Yeah, any girl you're with," says Todd, "everybody in the house knows about it, no matter what."

"Everybody in the house knows everything," says Mark.

"You mean if you make love to your girl, everybody in the house knows it?" I say.

"Yes," says Todd.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeek!" I scream.

"See, that's the wrong attitude," says Todd.

•

I have not seen the Moss Man around for a couple of days, and when I run into him in front of the house, he says he has been "having a riot" in New York interviewing at investment-banking firms.

"Except one thing," says the Moss Man, after I treat him to an Australian beer over at The Hanover Inn. "See, with traffic, I had to take the subway to make my two-o'clock appointment."

"Uh-oh," I say.

"So they gave me directions so that I'd go down the right hole," says the Moss Man, "and then the lady sitting behind the damned window couldn't speak English. Oh, great! So I went and found the best-dressed person I could and asked him how the hell I get back to Wall Street."

The Moss Man has on an Argyle sweater and a blue-corduroy baseball cap (he wore his gray-pinstriped suit, white shirt, dark tie, no vest in New York), and he pushes up the beak.

"And this person told you how to get there?" I say.

"Yes. Perfect. So I got on the subway going downtown, this express thing, and, ah, of course, the first thing that happens is this guy with one leg comes crutching it through the thing with his cup. Half the people gave this guy money and half of them didn't. And I'm sitting there shitting in my pants trying to figure out, All right, do I give this guy money? Or do I just kinda look at the floor and let him walk by? Fortunately, there was one other guy on the subway, in a suit, who looked like he was in the same . . . you know, that I was. And I watched him. And he didn't give him any money. He was looking straight at the floor when he walked by. So, when the guy got near me, I just looked straight at the floor and waited for him to go by--and my, my hands were sweating something awful. . . . And then I got off at the Wall Street stop."

•

The sorority girls are over at Lisa's, apartment. Lisa is a senior and is going to be a commercial banker. She has just gotten off the phone with Manufacturers Hanover in New York. "I'm really psyched to go to New York," she says. "I'll work at a bank for maybe five years, and then I'm psyched to have a family and children, and then I'd love to have tons of capital and put it in my own enterprise."

Lisa wears gold chains, gold half-hoop earrings with gold chains, gray sweat pants and a cashmere sweater, and dates a Psi U. The girls say they'd rather go out with a fraternity guy than a G.D.I, because "there's more to do and more parties."

"You can tell a lot about a guy by what fraternity he's in," says Lisa.

"Definitely," says Diane. "There's your football fraternities, there's your premed fraternities. . . ."

Betsy comes whizzing in.

"God!" she says. She is a little, blonde with a wonderful build and dark-blue eyes with long eyelashes. She has been running and is breathing heavily and her complexion is brilliant.

"Betsy dates Ned," says one of the girls.

"I know," I say. "Are they the cutest couple."

Betsy laughs softly and sits down.

"Perfect," says Lisa.

"They are cute," says Diane.

Betsy laughs and drops her forehead on her knees and embraces her calves.

"Oh, you guys!" she shouts affectionately.

The girls say that when you get to be a senior, you start thinking about what you want in a husband. I ask them what some of the qualities are.

Betsy raises her head.

"Money," she whispers.

The girls laugh.

"No," says Betsy, pulling up her socks. "I'm just kidding."

"No, no," I say. "I think you're telling the truth."

"Well," she says, straightening her back, "I want a very ambitious husband, though. Very ambitious."

"See," says Lisa. "We all want that."

"I want one who is not afraid that I am going to be ambitious, too," says Betsy.

"Right," says Lisa.

"I want us both to be very ambitious," says Betsy, raising her hair off the back of her neck, "and very competitive in what we do. And" --she takes the bandanna from around her head--"I want him to be athletic. And he's got to be good-looking and ski and play tennis."

Diane claps her hands together, lifts them to her bust and holds them there.

"You didn't say sexy," I say.

"I said athlelic!" says Betsy. She glances over at Lisa, and Lisa takes the gold chain out of her mouth and gives Betsy an energetic round of clicks.

•

The Moss Man is looking forward to having a family but says he does not think it is very suitable to have his wife working after they have kids.

"At that point," says the Moss Man, "she's just going to have to give up whatever she's doing."

"And then what?" I say.

"And then," says the Moss Man, "then she'll be there all day, you know . . . while I'm out."

•

The Psi U.s have to host their divisional conference "for the visiting lunch meat from other chapters," explains Brades, and the guys throw a party on Friday night. I am watching a carload of Smith girls arrive, when a young man comes rushing up to me from the basement. He is a tall fellow with a thick waist, a long nose, narrow shoulders and a pointed head.

"I just have to see if you're the person I heard about," he says. "I am from the Psi U. national office."

"Oh! How do you do?" I say.

"Mark Bauer," he says. "I'm more than amazed that you're doing an article. And I just want to say, I am glad to say that I have met you. And when I am asked for a report at our next board of directors' meeting, I can say that at least I met you and you do not look like a horrible person."

He gazes at me, fretting gently.

"I do have a serious question to ask you, though," he says. He clears his throat and frowns.

"What?"

"And I would be totally derelict in my responsibilities . . . I don't feel exactly great asking this question"--he waves his hands as if he has slammed his fingers in a door--"but I would feel derelict in my responsibilities if I did not. Is there any chance that before the article is published--"

I start shaking my head.

"That we could get a look--OK! I just felt I had to ask! You understand that I would be derelict in my duties. I wish you good luck--"

"Good night, Mark!" shouts Ned.

"And I look forward to reading--"I reach out to shake his hand, but Ned and Brades swoop up from behind and grab him around the neck.

"I didn't do anything bad!" cries the young man from the national office.

"Good night, Mark," says Brades.

"I just talked to her!" cries Mark.

"Good night, Mark!" says Ned.

"No, he was very nice," I say.

"They didn't want me to talk to you!" he yells. He tries to pull his head from under Ned's arm, but the brothers fall upon him and drag him off.

•

My last night at Dartmouth, the Psi U.s take me out to dinner, toward which I have to contribute only a $20 bill, and after we eat, I wait outside the inn with my bags for Dave to drive me to the train. It is raining and the snow is melting, and a lone figure comes dashing through the fog. It is Solomon Hapte-Selassie.

"Solomon!" I say.

"I can't stay!" he says excitedly, brushing the raindrops off his forehead. "But I'll see you in New York."

"New York!" I cry.

"I'm just finishing my résumé," says the 235th direct descendant of King Solomon and the queen of Sheba, great-nephew of Emperor Haile Selassie, worshiped as a god in some nations and Caribbean islands. "Robbie D. got me a job this summer at Chase Manhattan bank!"

"'If you gave the waitress a thirty-dollar tip,' says the Moss Man, 'she'd be running all over town.'"