Chapter Text
DDOOOOBBBBIEeeeEeEeEe! shrieked a bunch of trumpets.
...doo BOW!
Bright and sunny was the S. Peter Pryor Community College Campus...
...as Dobie proudly exited Latin II, stepping into the gorgeous Springtime.
Ah, the birds were singing! The grass was growing! And Dobie was thinking about —
What else?!
💖Girls!! 💖
The happy freshman spent the last few hours dissecting Sappho’s beautiful poetry:
“Ah! undyin’ Daughter of God, befriend me!”
recited the passionate Dobie, gesturing at the sun:
“Calm my blood that thrills with impendin’ transport;
Feed my lips the murmur of words
to stir her Bosom to pity!!!”
With these words he sighed and hugged the book to his chest, bursting with reverence for the Divine Feminine.
Each time he saw a young woman crossing the campus, Dobie swooned as if Venus herself had passed him by.
Each vision of musical poetry was dolled-up in a sun-dress or polka-dot blouse or poodle skirt or cable-knit sweater....
Short, tall, dark, small...and all so equally, kaleidoscopically beautiful!
💖💖💖Girls!!!💖💖💖
As you know, Dobie Gillis was the Straightest Man on the North American Continent, and the most flamboyant “straight-shootin’ American” to ever walk the Earth. Nobody had ever yearned for the soft kiss of a “creamy girl” as much as this decent, honest, wrist-flickin’ Yankee Doodle.
And his cishet heart had but one desire, dear reader:
To find one very special girl to hold, and let her be the Headmistress of his Heart, to be her slave of love forever and ever.
Just one girl. One “beautiful, soft, round, creamy girl.”
That's all he wanted!
(And we all know it’s gonna be Zelda Gilroy.)
And so Dobie dreamed of his Many Loves on this magical American Afternoon!
He was all set to attend the local P.A.L. pancake dinner when, uh...
...he noticed what looked like a dead raccoon on the bench!
Dobie startled in disgust — only to recognize the shaggy pile of rags.
“Oh — it’s only you, Maynard!”
“It’s ooooonly you, Maynard,” mocked the beatnik, exhausted. “It’s ooooonly you Maynard. That’s all everybody ever says. It’s oooooonly you, Maynard...”
“Aw, gee, Maynard, I —”
“No offense, Big Daddy, but (like) hit the road, like scram-o, like get Gonesville.”
Dobie gasped. “Gonesville?”
“Yep. Like, hit the road runnin’, Dobe. No offense.”
“No offense! Aw, what’s gotten into ya, Maynard?”
“I’m (like) real busy.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Mopin’,” he said. “Bein’ doooooown in the dumps.”
“You? In the dumps? Why, ya only go there Tuesdey when they smash cars,” chuckled the dimpled Dobie, making fun of his special interest.
“Don’t try to cheer me up, good buddy. I’m like all-down gloom and doom, like heartbroke, like all the way oppressed.”
“Er...that’s depressed, Maynard.”
“Like both, Dobe,” replied the trans man (it’s LITERALLY CANON).
Dobie sat down beside Maynard’s worn-out tennis shoes. “Well, uh...what’s got ya feelin’ so down, pal?”
“Like, Dizz, man.”
“Wh — Dizzy Gillespie?!” blurted Dobie. “Trumpet-playin’, horn-blowin’, band-leadin’ Dizzy Gillespie?!”
“Yep.”
“But — but Maynard, you’re president of the national Dizz for President Fan Club!”
“Like, naturally.”
“And just last week! — ya sent him that 50-pound box a’ fan mail!”
“Like, naturally.”
“And how about that 10-second phone call ya made to him last year in Copenhagen?!”
“Still payin’ it off, good buddy.”
“So how could your favorite musician make ya feel oppressed?” — Dobie blinked passive-aggressively — “that is, uh...depressed?”
“’Cause I can’t afford his swingin’ new LP — The Greatest of Dizzy Gillespie!!” cried Maynard, curling up on the bench.
"Maynard..."
“Featurin’ Chano Pozo on the congas! Oooooooo-oooo...!” grieved the clairvoyant, clutching his sides in unbearable agony.
Several college students walked by, concerned.
“Uh...there, there,” muttered Dobie, patting Maynard’s knee in confusion.
Nobody understood that Maynard was feeling the pain and loss of Pozo’s untimely death. But Maynard had no words to explain his feelings, so he just earnestly begged:
“Oh, Dobe, I just gotta hear those songs all together, I just gotta! But I only get paid (like) NEXT FRIDAY!” lamented the part-time owl feeder.
“Ah, next Fridey?” He gestured at Maynard’s knee. “Why, chin up, pal; that’s only ten days away.”
“Ten days?!” protested the beatnik, sitting up. “Ten days?! Man that’s like twenty years in Jazz Time!”
“Ja — uh...Jazz Time?”
“I’m doomed!” lamented the gone cat, grabbing Dobie. “Doomed, daddio! All I wanna do is dig that Coooooolsville record, but I ain’t got the bread! I ain't got the gluten! Now I’m like ‘out’! Outsville! Out City! Out like a piece of cooooodeless bonfish!”
“Well can’t ya just listen to it at our ol’ Music Appreciation Room?” offered the grocer, pointing.
“That cubicle?! Mannnnn they only got 2 swingin’ records — ‘Jolly Jo’ and ‘Tickle Toe’ — and I know ’em both like the back of my Gon Bops.”
“Now how about ya stop by that ol’ — ”
“Nope, shake it, Dobe,” interrupted the mind-reader. “Riff Ryan like hates me.”
Dobie touched his chin, perplexed. How did Maynard know what he was about to say?
“On account’ve I kept smooooothin’ out all his Dizz records. I kept smoooooothin’ em out.”
“Mayn...”
“Smoooooothin’ em out,” stimmed Maynard, eyes wide. “Like I spin ’em and spin ’em (smoooooothin’ ’em out) and they get all thin and floppy like a French grape!!!”
“That’s French crêpe,” muttered Dobie Gillis, “and have ya tried askin’ those, uh...hip-ster kids from the Dupo coffee house?”
“Oh, that ship is like sailed, Dobe. Everybody there (like) hates me.”
“Yeah...”
“On account of I copped some 88s from that chick Deidre and I (like) cracked ’em on accident.”
“Well, ya gotta be more careful when ya borrow people’s records, Maynard! Last time ya borrowed my Lawrence Welk, ya gave it back to me all crushed-up and crumbled in a ZipLoc bag!”
“Oh that wasn’t no accident that time, Dobe.”
“Yeah, it looked like a smashed Oreo with the...” — Dobie did a double take — “...WHAT?!”
“Yeaaah! I used this craaazy power drill! Like it went brbbrbrbrbrbrb...”
“POWER DRILL?”
“Then I like stomped it and kicked it and set it on fire — ”
“MAYNARD!”
“ — and I flung it at the highway and it got wailed over by this biiiiiig honkin’ 18-wheelin' freehauler — ”
“MAYNARD, HOW COULD YA?!!”
“Anyway, Daddy — ”
“THAT WAS MY BIRTHDAY PRESENT!!”
“Anyway, Big Daddy,” said Maynard, “can you (like) spare a dime?”
The grocer’s son shook his hand no. “Maynard, I told ya. I’m as broke as John Wayne after that date last night!” Dobie suddenly sighed at the clouds. “Ahhhh, Lobster Heaven with that beautiful, greedy Thalia Mennonger. She even touched my hand! — while askin’ me to transfer to CUNY and become an orthodontist.”
Maynard pinched the air. “How about a tiny lil’ quarter? A meeeeasly lil’ tiny quarter for your best buddy?”
“Mayn...”
“How ’bout a shiiiiiny penny?”
“Maynard...”
“How ’bout a pretty nickel? Just a preeeeetty little nickel f— ”
“MAYNARD, PLEASE!” Dobie flung his hands so hard he almost threw his Latin book. “Ya can’t expect handouts from a man with empty hands!!”
Maynard moped to a slouch. “Ooooo man, what a trip! I can’t dig Dizz ’cause I can’t beg or borrow or steal it or have it or grab it or go, and even Big Daddy’s a bog pocket. Man, like America ain’t no free country.”
Dobie gasped, lips apart. He swore he heard him wrong. “Huh?”
“Said the U. of S. A. ain’t (like) no free country, when a hot cat can’t even dig Un-ga-wa.” He sadly beatboxed it under his breath.
Dobie’s jaw dropped. He slowly looked around. Was he in The Twilight Zone? Or did Maynard really spue anti-American sentiment in the year of our lord 1961?!
“Man I can’t even apply for a credit card ’cause I’m on the F.B.I. watch list. Ungawaa...waaa...yeaaaha, but, like, who needs America?”
Dobie’s mouth dropped to a horrified O. He twitched his finger to shush him, but:
“Yeaaaah, who needs America? America’s like nothin’!” realized the beatnik. “Ooooo, like I could live anywhere else, and live all over kingdom come! Yeaah like I could live in Acapulco, or Cleveland, or the seven seas in a big Floatin’ Boat!!”
To Dobie’s terror, Maynard grew in excitement, climbing up the bench:
“Ooooo, or zoom around in a swingin’ spaceship! Or live on another planet! Or a dessert island! Or Hans Conried’s house! Or zoom around in a big bus solvin’ mysteries with some swingin' scooby-dooby dog — ”
“NOW CUT THAT OUT!” cried his horrified friend, gesturing squarely at his heart. “Why, Maynard, you’re an American citizen — and, and a veteran of the Armed Forces! How could ya insult our fair nation in broad daylight?! I mean how could ya?!”
“It’s easy, Dobe! All you do is just open your mouth and out it comes. Watch: America’s like nothin’!”
Dobie’s sucked in two lungfuls of air. “NOW JUST A MINUTE — JUST A DARN MINUTE!” he roared, leaping to his feet. “America ain't nothin’: why, it’s everythin’!”
“It ain’t free, that’s for sure.”
“Free?! Why it’s the free-est country in the Free World!!”
“Not for me and my friends, Dobe.”
“Sure it is— ”
“No way, man! Like, get hip, Dobe. That's how come I did those (like) swingin’ Freedom Rides last week!"
“Well...well, I, uh...”
“Baaaayard Ruuuustin,” enthused Maynard, drumming on his knees with excitement. “We were strikin’ on busses just like Baaaaayard Ruuuustin!”
“....Maynard...”
“Baaaayard Ruuuustin! I learned more on that swingin’ bus trip than 13 whole years of school! Ooooo, what they said! I used to have no So-Co but I dig the System now, Dobe — the Fuzz is like racist! Just like the Constitution!”
The young man was flabbergasted.
“So we were ridin’ and then we got mobbed and we got beat up and locked up in Squaresville, but like jail no bail, Dobe! Jail no bail! So we sang a bunch of swingin’ songs and the cop in Birmingham let us out and even JFK told us to cool it and Farmer called it a deep freeze and JFK like sicced the the F.B.I. on us and we got beat up and the hospital wouldn’t take me but I got (like) 25 stitches!” He proudly showed the scar on his arm.
Dobie faltered, not sure what to say. Refused hospital care? Arrest without a trial? Protests being illegal? This all sounded rather unAmerican!
“Yeaahh, like get hip, Dobe, get with-it, get woke! It’s called Civil Rights! We gotta sit-in and Join the Movement and put up flyers and protest and picket and boycott Woolworth’s — ”
“Protests? Boycotts? Why, our Foundin’ Fathers did all that,” boomed Dobie, “and built this Perfect Union for you and I!”
“Not for my friends, Dobe.”
“Ahhh, sure it is!” He flung his arm. “Just look at that big open Sky, shinin’ its Liberty Blue!”
Maynard squinted at the grey sky.
“And those soft, round (creamy) clouds; white as the snow a’ Valley Forge!” bolstered Dobie.
“Who?”
“And that rich and fertile land below us — why, that’s the Land of the Free!”
“The Land of the Potawatomi,” corrected the happy beatnik.
Dobie pointed to the college: “And there — there, the red bricks of our alma mætter! Red as the flame a’ Dawn!”
“Like, tuition is free, and I still can’t afford it,” lamented Maynard.
“Well, drownin’-in-debt as we both may be,” began Dobie, slapping his book, “we are Free to Dream! To American Dream! To Pursue the pursuit of...uh...of the Pursuit, a’ Happiness!”
“Who?”
Somehow, Dobie’s hand struck up a marching band, which played Cagney’s You’re a Grand Old Flag:
“Sure, it’ll take elbow grease,” shouted Dobie, flapping his open hand, “and — and sacrifice and like that!
“But ain’t the American Way?” hamfisted the son of Herbert Gillis, punching his Latin book. “The free future our founding forefathers fought for?”
“Yeah!” rallied a sudden crowd.
Indeed, all that patriotism had spawned a mass of hot-blooded American students. They were all waving little ten-cent American flags.
Dobie pounded his fist against his chest, with the rat-a-tat-tat of the drums. “Why, it’s our right to work hard and beat the Reds, Maynard!” he promised the crowd. “So what if the Communists have got free operas; and, and free college; and free rent; and beautiful, hardworkin’ women with gorgeous lips and soft eyes? They haven’t a slice a’ Wonder Bread in the whole Soviet Union!”
“Yeahhhh, and that square Kremlin (like) starved the Ukrainians and the Balkars and the Chechens and the Ingush and the Tatars and the Turks and the Karachays and the — ”
“See! They’re Have-Nots, and us? We’re Haves! And we’re Proud to be the Underdogs — who invade any nation we wanna!”
A local Boy Scout troop stopped and saluted.
“If it’s got guano, it’s ours!” sang Dobie, gesturing at the flag above them. “If it’s got oil, it’s ours! Heck if it’s got anythin’, it’s ours! We Capitalists Shall Inherit the Earth — and the moon, too! And we won’t be satisfied until we’ve got 1,000 TV channels and — and military bases as far as the eye can see!”
Everyone burst into rousing, thunderous applause.
“But like, what about bases of genuine concern and understandin’?” suggested the clairvoyant, who was ignored.
The song became God Bless America because of course it did.
“And for that freedom,” continued Dopey (er, I mean Dobie), “it’s our right to face recessions, and drafts, and wars-for-profit, and robber-barons who bust our unions. Why, that shows us we’re free! Free to oppress and to be oppressed! To eat Kraft Foods and drink Coca-Cola and have RAND think our thoughts for us!”
“Yeah!” cried the crowd.
“Because that’s what makes us Americans!!”
“Yeah!”
“So, my fellow citizens,” shouted Dobie (with a sparkle in his smile). “Work hard! Never rest!”
“Yeah!”
“Pull yourselves up by those bootstraps!”
“Yeah!”
“Feed a cold and starve a fever!” added Maynard.
“Ye..uh...” Dobie turned to him, frowning.
Everyone just stared at the beatnik, confused.
“Just holdin’ up my end of the conversation,” muttered Maynard, hugging his knees.
The music honked to an awkward end. The neurotypical crowd, the marching band, and the Boy Scouts all murmured in dissatisfaction, tossing their flags aside and abandoning the impromptu parade.
The beatnik looked disappointed. He didn’t mean to spoil the mood; he really didn’t.
“Aw, thanks a lot, Maynard,” scorned Dobie, “I swore I saw a pair of dreamy, creamy eyes in that crowd!”
As if on cue, a pompous voice rang out:
“Hi-ho, peasants!”
Who could it be but Chatsworth Osborne Jr. — born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a trust fund in his cradle? The sharply-dressed sport bounded down the stairs, grinning braggadociously.
“Rambling about the American Dream? How quaint! I just adore fairy tales!”
Dobie Gillis rolled his eyes. “Chatsworth, do you mind? We’re havin’ a private conversation.”
“Yeah,” agreed Maynard, “like, rattle off, you lowdown rat.”
“Gaww! How impolite!” snorted the jillionaire, hardly offended. “But what manners could one expect from the working poor?”
“WORK?!” zoinked Maynard, flinching.
“Aw, Chatsworth, let us alone, would ya? Can’t ya see poor Maynard’s havin’ a bad day as it is?”
“Yeahhh, poooooor me,” agreed Maynard, “and you’re just makin’ it worse, you snooty loser.”
“Loser?” minded Chatsworth, meming: “You say that to me! Ohhhh Krebs you big boorish oaf — have you not heard who won the Waldorf-Astoria Cup at the National Pony Show?”
“Oo — was it Dobie?!” hoped Maynard, to the grocer’s offended confusion.
Chatsworth laughed pompously: “Why Nooo-ho-ho!— ’twas my sporting old self, upon my fabulous steed, Butter Pie!”
Dobie rolled his eyes for the second time.
“Butter Pie — or B.P., for short — is my Polo Pony of exceptionally high class,” boasted Chatsworth, a fist on his hip, “having been bred from Hackney’s original stock!”
“Poooooooor pony,” grieved Maynard.
“Lo Lo LO,” continued Chatsworth, “my expensive little blue-blooded equine won Best In Show...as well as Uncle Alfred’s generous Prize Monẽyyyy!”
“Whoop-de-doodle for ya, Chatsworth. Now why are ya tellin’ us all this?!” demanded Dobie.
Chatsworth chuckled nastily at the young grocer: “Patience, you baseborn milksop, I’ll get to that. Say — ”
“Baseborn?!” protested Dobie.
“Poooooooor pony,” sighed Maynard.
“I say: I’ve invested Alfred’s generous Prize Monẽèẽyyyy with the Steel Trust Rake-Off!”
“Milksop?!” protested Dobie.
“Pooooooor pony. Locked up in a stable all day, running around in a circle. Can’t even run free in the desert like it's opposed to. Poooooooor pony.”
“Thereby — TRIPLING my gargantuan Net Worth,” Chatsworth concluded flirtily. “Oui oui, chaps, it’s almost a bore having this much endless wealth! But as our Swiss banker says: there is nOooOoO such thing as tooOooO much MONEY!” The Osborne giggled, tickled by the mere thought of his offshore Zhááli.
Dobie and Maynard sizzled with jealousy.
“Ah Chatsworth, you’re just some loud braggart tryin’ to put me down!” accused Dobie, pointing.
“Oooo, let me gelatin ’im, Dobe, please?” begged Maynard. “Or shoot him out a big cannon? Or dip ’im in a big volcano?”
“No. Look, Chatsworth, what is it ya want from me?” asked Dobie crossly.
“From you?” tittered the jillionaire, amused by the idea. “Oh, Dobie-doo, you’re hardly anyone’s raison d’être. Nay, in truth I’ve got a trifling surprise for that jazz-loving tramp at your beck.”
The beatnik stood up and scrambled around. “Oo, a Jazz-lovin’ tramp? Like where?”
“Like there!” The Osborne pointed his signet ring at Maynard.
Maynard swirled around and looked at the empty bushes. “Like, there who?”
“Like there you!”
“Who, me?”
“You you you, Maynie-doo!” And lo, Chatsworth revealed a flat gift packaged in Dutch gilt paper.
Maynard was very surprised (as was Dobie).
“Voilà,” said Chatsworth rather uncomfortably, “a bit of charité for our tattered ragamuffin.”
Maynard’s lid flipped. “Oooo!” he stimmed, snapping. “Like, a weird auspicious present just for me?”
“That’s suspicious, Maynard, and — and don’t go trustin’ that greedy ole Chatsworth Osborne Junior! Can’t ya tell he’s got a connivin’ trick up his sleeve?”
“Oh spare me — it’s just a tax writeoff!” a nervous Chatsworth assured them. “The only thing up my sleeve is a rose gold Rolex. Now accept my bribe at once, you pea-brained pauper!!” and he shoved it into Maynard’s sweatshirt.
The beatcat grinned at the thin box. “Like, sure, man — if you exist!”
“That’s if ya insist, Maynard, and I for one strongly insist that ya don’t open that present!” commanded the veteran.
“Yeaaah you’re right, Dobe: I’ll open that present straaaaaight away!” agreed Maynard, shredding the gilded paper to pieces.
Dobie pursed his lips in defeat. Then he turned to you, the reader. “Now that’s Maynard for ya,” he narrated, hand a-flappin’. “I talk, and he won’t listen. I lead, and he won’t follah. Now how can I keep my head, if he’s always losin’ his?”
Chatsworth was about to ask who on Hetty’s green Earth Dobie was talking to, but meanwhile Maynard (like) gasped at what he dug:
“THE GREATEST OF DIZZY GUILLESPIE?!! OOOOOOO MAN-OH-MAN I CAN’T LIKE WAIT TO BLAST THIS WAY-OUT SONIC BEBOP ON MY SUPER STEREOSONIC STEREOPHONIC — ”
The jillionaire snatched the record away. “Nuh uh uhhhh,” teased Chatsworth, fanning himself with the album. “Not until you’ve asked Chatty-doo for the Catch of the Day...!”
“Like, CATCH?!”
“See Maynard, what’d I tell ya!” scolded Dobie.
“Awww sheep dip!” cursed the beatnik, stomping in far-out fury. “No one tole me you’d like gas me, you lowdown creep!!”
“I JUST DID!!!” raged Dobie.
The Dominant Male giggled to himself, coddling the expensive new record. “Mmyesss...I’m rather a Clever Cagliostro, aren’t I?” he mused, batting his little blue eyes.
“LIKE GIMME THAT DIZZ, YOU CUBE!” Maynard swiped for the swingin’ LP, but the judo student dodged him with expert skill:
“Hey...we’re getting in a rut!” enthused the Yale hopeful.
“SQUARE OFF, YOU FLAKE!” shouted Maynard, swingin’ his fist.
Chatsworth narrowly evaded a gut-punch. “Oop! Too slow, old sport. Now, hear my terms — ”
“FLAKE OFF, YOU SQUARE!”
“I say, I say: Hear my terms!”
“SQUAKE OFF, YOU FLARE!”
Dobie intercepted them like a referee: “Now CUT THAT OUT — both a’ ya!”
The protagonist pointed at them in turn: “Maynard, y’oughta save up till next Fridey and buy that album with your own hard-earned poverty!
“And Chatsworth Osborne Junior — go pick on someone your own caste!”
“That leaves very few playmates,” admitted the lonely Osborne.
“Well, still, I won’t let ya scheme schemes all over this decent, innocent manchild!”
“Yeah, I’m (like) helpless!” agreed Maynard.
Chatsworth tapped Dobie’s shoulder: “Say, Gillis baby...are you aware of the women’s tennis match occurring presently across the pond?”
“Aw, Chatsworth, ya can’t just distract me with, uh...with, uh...” — Dobie looked back, pointing — “...women’s tennis?”
Chatsworth nodded smugly.
Dobie dropped his textbook and sprinted across the field like a Looney Tunes character.
“My, my, my! Talk about a 23-skidoo,” mused Chatsworth the wealthy Diné (IT’S LITERALLY CANON).
“Yeah, like Big Daddy lickety-split on the triple,” agreed Maynard.
A distant Dobie Gillis scaled a fence in one freakish leap.
“My Word!” gasped Chatsworth, fist on his hip. “Not even B.P. could clear that hurdle!”
The lazy grocer sprinted across a footbridge a mile away.
“Mannnnn this is just like that way-out chase scene from The Monster that Devoured Cleveland with the tinker and the tailor and the soldier and the spy,” shouted Maynard.
And they both watched Dobie disappear across the horizon.
“This is Olympic, really,” commented Chatsworth.
“Yeaaaah like Greeced lightnin’!”
Speaking of Greek love, Chatsworth gazed back at the record, then at the taller boy. “Sooo...about that catch...”