1964

Class news is becoming quite scarce again, so please take a moment to drop me a line with news about yourself or other '64s. With apologies to Lan Fleming, I have only the following tale to recount this month.

It was a dark and stormy night as the forestgreen Bentley snaked through the Ft. Lauderdale traffic and eased onto the 1-95 expressway. Not even the Florida Highway Patrolman cleverly perched behind the Solareaine billboard could have guessed that the Bentley had been custom-equipped at the Bachelor Central Armoury to exceed the speed of sound. Its driver was comfortably attired in a blue knit Champion's blazer, white Levis, a Phi Delt crew shirt and Weejun's penny loafers. He had not worn socks for the occasion, as he did not want to arouse suspicion. Such was the cunning of Bachelor Central's cipal operant: Robert Cahners, known in the service as agent 77: Humphrey. He was one of the few in the service to be awarded the double-seven prefix, a symbol that he had performed the incredible feat of reaching the age of 30 without ever having married.

Humphrey's jaw was firmly set as his mind raced ahead to his destination in South Miami. It would be good to see Sandy Shapiro and DonKubit again, but it would be a nasty business to announce his purpose. Sandy and Kubes had served Bachelor Central well in their day, too, only to be cut down in their primes by the wily agents of S. M. O. G.—the ruthless Society to Marry Old Greens.

Humphrey's spine shivered as he recounted to himself his several "near miss" encounters with S. M. O. G. agents. He knew that his escape techniques were now well-documented in a S. M. O. G. dossier entitled, "Humphrey's Near Mrs." It would only be a matter of time before S. M. O. G. agents would develop counter-measures to his arsenal of old lines and ploys. Even last week, his discrete D. O. C. patch had failed to win hearts on the slopes at Stowe as it once had done. Could it have merely been that his parka was fading? Or that his breath had been bad?

No. He had gradually come to realize that his time was short. He sensed that destiny was overtaking him as the beautiful blonde beside him stirred from her nap on the Bentley's custom divan. "Are we there yet, darling?" she purred. "Almost, Pam, we're almost there," he said, choking with a surge of nostalgic emotion.

The meeting at the Kubits' had been pleasant. The champagne and caviar and hot hors d'oeuvres had been excellent. And now, as he sipped his third flagon of sangria at the La Tasca restaurant, he mused to himself that Spanish burgundy could simply not compare to the subtle, light Hungarian Tokaji Aszu he had sampled earlier. His reverie was interrupted as Kubit and Shapiro chided him for not paying proper attention to his paella. It was truly the best he had eaten anywhere. Cooked to order for six, the steaming silver Cuban roasting pan held enough of the delicately seasoned mixture to feed at least ten.

With each forkful of the fresh seafood and rice, Humphrey's entire Bachelor Central service record passed before him in mute review. Montreal, New York, Lebanon, Jamaica, Miami, White River, Acapulco, and finally, Boston. It was there that he had met Pam, his winsome companion for the evening.

Tall and strikingly lithe, Pam was reared ,in Kennebunkport, Maine, and displayed the unmistakably worldly air of a Colby College graduate interested in New England real estate development. She was indeed charming. As she talked easily with Joy Shapiro and Mary Alice Kubit, the conversation turned to children and then, almost impierceptibly, to married life. Not one of the men at the table noticed the gestures secretly exchanged among the three women—an ever so slight tremor in the third finger of the left hand—which identified each of them as agents of S. M. 0: G.!

After the remains of the flail and Cuban coffee were cleared from the table by the skilled hand of Rafael, a one-armed, wizened veteran of the Bay of Pigs Invasion who had escaped by raft from Castro's infamous Isle of Pines prison, the entourage sped to the luxurious solace of a yacht moored behind the 79th Street Causeway for a round of Galiano Stingers. It was there that Humphrey made his startling revelation.

"My friends," he began, "I have an announcement to make." Pam smiled coyly at the other women. "I have asked Pam, here to marr—er what I mean is, ahh ..." Instantly Sandy and Kubes sensed the danger. They nodded knowingly as Humphrey continued. "Pam and I are engaged to be, uh, married. We're probably going to have the ceremony in July. Most likely in Boston. We're in love, you see, and there's just no other way.... " Humphrey's voice trailed off.

Sandy and Kubes understood. They knew well the look of resignation to destiny that Humphrey's eyes revealed. They heartily congratulated the couple, and joined in the rounds of toasts and warm wishes. And as the forest green Bentley drove off into the night carrying Humphrey and Pam back to Ft. Lauderdale, Sandy turned to Kubes and said, "There goes one of the best agents that Bachelor Central ever had. I can hardly believe that this has happened."

"Cheer up, Sandy," said Kubes, "Tell the boys that they're really not losing Humphrey. They're gaining another good honey." Sandy nodded absently, his eyes still fixed upon the shrinking Bentley, and his mind turning toward the planning for a truly devastating bachelor party for Humphrey. Neither he nor Kubes had noticed that their wives had excused themselves.

Even at that moment, the telephone at S. M. O. G. Headquarters, a cleverly disguised Cut Rate Sundries shop in Hanover, rang and was answered. "This is Joy Shapiro and Mary Alice Kubit reporting from Miami. Agent Pamela Timson has succeeded in the Humphrey mission!" There was a stunned pause, and then the ArchChickey of S. M. O. G. replied, Wonderful my darlings! Soon the entire Class of '64 will be married as they should be!"

After an exchange of pleasantries, the ArchChickey rang off. She smiled softly, and thought, "Edith, you've done it again! But I wonder how the Varkas affair is progressing?"

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