The Stranger at the Curb

Abstract

The velvet purr of the engine became even softer. The strange young man looked hopefully over his smart roadster at me, gave the slightest, most inconspicuous nod ahead. My hand moved vertically, a bare inch. The purr became a roar. Once more, for the sixth time in as many blocks, Romance was repulsed. Or perhaps I only saved my arches. And the parade of beckoning strangers at the curb is growing. Ten years ago it took some slight encouragement to get an offer of a pick-up on the sedate streets of Lincoln, Nebraska. Today it requires considerable sales resistance to slick cars and well-dressed soft-spoken young men to get home without taking at least one flier.1 Nor need you be a dewy-eyed Ziegfelder. A frank thirtiness not particularly redeemed by an under-fed, 'teenish body and a pinch of swank with your clothes will do. Not even a stack of omnibus volumes on your arm will discourage these avid companion seekers,3 by no means restricted to local talent Among the 385 cars whose license plates I scrutinized during the last year were representatives from every state of the Union and three provinces of Canada. I was not ready to accept the verdict of depravity passed upon the curber by the church and social workers and the good women of my acquaintance. Particularly when, on a Sunday evening stroll along the six blocks home from the city library with a ragged note book under my arm, the curb seemed literally lined, every intersection blocked by hopefuls, I began to wonder. Who are these knights of the pavements and, as your great grandfather asked of your grandmother's boy friends, what are their intentions?