Word: girls
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...Rockford is the coolest. Bar none. I mean, he wears polyester jackets, he drives a Firebird, he gets $200 a day plus expenses, plus the girl, generally. He dates girls who are smarter than he is, a very cool thing to do. Lately he has been dating Beth, a lawyer. Rockford could never be a lawyer--his degree is from the College of Hard Knocks. And his LSAT score was 417, anyway...
...visitor begins to sense some of the change when a bus from Wellesley, what the unrefined at Dartmouth call a "meat wagon," pulls up outside the Hanover Inn. A cute, brown-haired girl hops out of the doorway, her loosely tied sleeping bag unrolling all over her arms. "Not too optimistic, eh?" a passing male snickers, suggestively eying the bag. "Maybe," she answers lightly. But she can't quite pull it off. Between the sleeping bag and her uncertainty, a thin red blush swims up over her face. Clearly, life was easier in some ways when girls were expected...
...good athletes and are generally pretty good looking. Women get in because they are smart." The view is not confined to inquiring males. At the Cheese, Etc., a coffee house crowded most of the weekend with Dartmouth men and their out-of-town dates, one boy says to his girl, "It's so good to see a real woman again...
...parties do indeed blast through the nights. But to an outsider they very much resemble freshman mixers everywhere in the country. Large, smoky rooms, reeking of beer and shuddering to the sound of loud music, are often filled with revelers shoulder to shoulder. Clusters of boys approach clusters of girls like amoebas making tentative contact. The approach is sometimes individual. At one frat party a red-faced boy holding a beer edges closer and closer to an apparently preoccupied brunette. "Hi," he says, over the music. "Where are you from?" "Wheaton College," she says, giving him nothing. "Oh," says...
Even upstairs, diffidence rather than debauchery seems rampant. In the darkened Alpha Delta TV room, for instance, a girl with piled-up blond hair seems absorbed in the 11 o'clock news. A frat brother approaches her. "If I don't see the news I feel out of touch," she explains, rather breathlessly. "But if you want to change it to Saturday Night Live, it's O.K. with me." He does, and they sit together watching. In quiet darkness, or boozy haze, most of the conversation seems as timeless and fraudulent as ever. "You got a date...