I LIKE BLONDES 

 

Robert Bloch 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, it’s all a matter of taste, nothing more. It’s a weakness with me, I suppose. My friends have their own opinions: some are partial to brunettes or redheads, and I suppose that’s all right. I certainly don’t criticize them in the least. 

But blondes are my favorites. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, thin ones, brilliant ones, dumb ones—all sorts, sizes, shapes, and nationalities. Oh, I’ve heard all the objections: their skin ages faster, they have peculiar personalities; they’re giddy and mercenary and conceited. None of which bothers me a bit, even if it’s true. I like blondes for their special qualities and I’m not alone in my weakness. I notice Marilyn Monroe hasn’t done too badly in general favor. Nor Kim Novak. 

Enough of this; after all, I’m not apologizing. What I do is my own business. And if I wanted to stand on the corner of Reed and Temple at eight o’clock at night and pick up a blonde, I owed no apologies to anyone. 

Perhaps I was a bit obvious and overdressed for the occasion. Perhaps I shouldn’t have winked, either. But that’s a matter of opinion, too, isn’t it? 

I have mine. Other people have theirs. And if the tall girl with the page-boy cut chose to give me a dirty look and murmur, “Disgusting old man,” that was her affair. I’m used to such reactions, and it didn’t bother me a bit. 

A couple of cute young things in blue jeans came sauntering along. Both of them had hair like Minnesota wheat, and I judged they were sisters. Not for me, though. Too young. You get into trouble that way, and I didn’t want trouble. 

It was a nice, warm, late-spring evening. Lots of couples out walking. I noticed one blonde in particular—she was with a sailor, I recall—and I remember thinking to myself that she had the most luscious calves I’ve ever seen. But she was with a sailor. And there was one with a child and one with a party of stenographers out on the town for a night, and one I almost spoke to, until her boy friend came up suddenly after parking the car. 

Oh, it was exasperating, I can tell you! It was beginning to seem as though everybody had his blonde but me. Sometimes it’s like that for weeks, but I’m philosophical about such things. 

I glanced up at the clock, around nine, and concluded that I’d best be on my way. I might be a “disgusting old man” but I know a trick or two. Blondes are where you find them. 

Right now, I knew, the best place to find them would be over at Dreamway. Sure, it’s a dime-a-dance hall. But there’s no law against that. 

There was no law against my walking in and standing there at the back before I bought tickets. There was no law to prevent me from looking, from sorting out and selecting. 

Ordinarily I didn’t much care for these public dance halls. The so-called “music” hurts my ears, and my sensibilities are apt to be offended by the spectacle of dancing itself. There is a vulgar sexual connotation which dismays me, but I suppose it’s all a part of the game. 

Dreamway was crowded tonight. The “operators” were out in force: filling-station attendants with long sideburns, middle-aged dandies incongruous in youthfully styled “sharp” suits, wistful little Filipinos and lonesome servicemen on leave. And mixing and mingling with them, the girls. 

Those girls, those hostesses! Where did they get their dresses—the crimson Day-Glow gowns, the orange and cerise abominations, the low-cut black atrocities, the fuchsia horrors? And who did their hair—poodle cuts and pony cuts and tight ringlets and loose maenad swirls? The garish, slashing, red-and-white make-up, the dangling, bangling cheap jewelry gave the effect of pink ribbons tied to the horns of a prize heifer. 

And yet there were some prize heifers here. I don’t mean to be crude in the least; merely honest. Here, in the reeking cheap-perfume-deodorant-cigarette-smoke-talcum-scented mist of music and minglement, strange beauty blossomed. 

Poor poetry? Rich truth! I saw a tall girl with the body of a queen, whose eyes held true to a far-off dream. She was only a brunette, of course, but I’m not one to adhere to blind prejudice. There was a redhead whose dancing was stiff and stately; she held her body like a white candle surmounted by a scarlet flame. And there was a blonde— 

Yes, there was a blonde! Quite young, a bit too babyishly plump, and obviously a prey to fatigue, but she had what I was looking for. The true, fair-haired type, bred blondely to the bone. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a fake blonde. Dyed hair, or the partial blonde who becomes a “brownette” in her late twenties. I’ve been fooled by them before, and I know. 

But this was a real blonde, a harvest goddess. I watched her as she swept, in unutterable boredom, around the floor. Her dancing partner was a clod—visiting rancher, I’d guess. Expensively dressed, but with that telltale red neck rising out of the white collar of his shirt. Yes—and unless my eyes deceived me, he was chewing on a toothpick as he danced! 

I made my decision. This was it. I went up and bought myself three dollars’ worth of tickets. Then I waited for the number to end. 

They play short numbers at Dreamway, of course. In about a minute the clamor ceased. My blonde was standing on the edge of the floor. The rancher broke away, apparently determined to buy more tickets. 

I walked over to her, displayed my handful. “Dance?” I asked. She nodded, scarcely looking at me. She was tired. She wore an emerald-green gown, low-cut and sleeveless. There were freckles on her plump arms and—intriguingly enough—on her shoulders and down the neckline to the V. Her eyes seemed green, but that was probably the dress. No doubt they were actually gray. 

The music started. Now I may have given the impression that, since I dislike dance halls and dancing, I am not particularly adept at the ballet of the ballroom. In all modesty, this is far from the case. I have made it my business to become an expert dancer. I find it inevitably to be of help to me in establishing contacts. 

Tonight was no exception. 

We weren’t out on the floor thirty seconds before she glanced up and looked at me—really looked at me, for the first time. 

“Gee, you’re a good dancer!” 

That “Gee” was all I needed. Together with her rather naïve tone of voice, it gave me an immediate insight into her character and background. Small-town girl, probably, who quit school and came to the city. Perhaps she came with some man. If not, she met one shortly after her arrival. It ended badly, of course. Maybe she took a job in a restaurant or a store. And then she met another man, and the dance hall seemed easier. So here she was. 

Quite a lot to adduce from a single exclamation? Yes, but then I’ve met so many blondes in similar situations, and the story is always the same; that is, if they’re the “Gee!” type. And I’m not deprecatory in the least. I happen to like the “Gee!” type best of all. 

She could tell that I liked her, of course, from the way I danced. I almost anticipated her next remark. “There’s life in the old boy yet.” 

I smiled, not at all resentful. “I’m younger than I look.” I winked. “You know, I could dance with you all night—and something tells me that’s not a bad idea.” 

“You flatter me.” But she looked worried. That was the whole idea. She believed me. 

I gave her just under a minute for the thought to take hold. Then I pulled the switch. “I wouldn’t fool you,” I told her. “I’m like all the other men you meet—just lonely. I’m not going to ask if we couldn’t go somewhere and talk, because I know the answer. You’re paid to dance. But I happen to know that if I buy, say, ten dollars’ more worth of tickets, you can get off. And we can sneak off for a few drinks.” I winked again. “Sitting down.” 

“Well, I don’t know—” 

“Of course you don’t. But I do. Look, if you have any worries about me pulling a fast one, I’m old enough to be your grandfather.” 

It was obvious, and she considered it. She also considered the delightful prospect of sitting down. “I guess it’s O.K.,” she murmured. “Shall we go, Mr.—?” 

“Beers,” I said. 

“What?” She checked a giggle. “Not really.” 

“Really. Beers is the name. Not the drink. You can drink anything you like, Miss—” 

“Shirley Collins.” Now the giggle came out. “Sort of a coincidence, don’t you think? Beers and Collins.” 

“Come on, what are we waiting for?” I steered her over to the edge of the floor, went to buy my tickets, and made the necessary arrangements with the manager while she got her coat. It cost me an extra five for his tip, but I didn’t begrudge him the money. We all have to eat, you know. 

She didn’t look bad at all, once she had some of that mascara washed off. Her eyes were gray, I discovered. And her arms were soft and rounded. I escorted her quite gallantly to the bar down the street and hung up her coat when we found a nice quiet back booth. 

The waitress was one of those scrawny, sallow-faced brunettes. She wore slacks and chewed gum; I’d never consider her for a moment. But she served her purpose—drinks, rather. I ordered rye on the rocks and she brought the two glasses. 

I paid her, not forgetting to tip, because I’d be wanting prompt service. She snapped her gum in friendly acknowledgment and left us alone. I pushed my drink over to Shirley. 

“What’s the matter?” she said. 

“Nothing. It’s just that I don’t indulge.” 

“Now, wait a minute, Mr. Beers. You aren’t trying to get a girl loaded, are you?” 

“My dear young lady—please!” I sounded for all the world like an elderly college professor admonishing his class. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to.” 

“Oh, that’s O.K. Only you know, a girl has to be careful.” The way she downed the first rye belied her words. She toyed with the second glass. “Say, this can’t be much fun for you, sitting and watching me drink.” 

“If you only knew,” I said. “Didn’t I tell you I was lonely? And wanted someone to talk to?” 

“A girl hears some funny lines, but I guess you’re on the level. What’ll we talk about?” 

That was an easy one. “You.” From now on I didn’t even need to think about what I was saying. Everything proceeded automatically. My mind was free to consider her blondness, her ripe and ample richness. Why should anyone insist on the presence of a brain in a body like that? 

I certainly didn’t. I was content to let her ramble on, ordering drinks for hex whenever the glass was empty. “And honest, you have no idea what that grind does to your feet—” 

“Excuse me a moment,” I said. “I must say hello to an old friend.” 

I walked down to the other end of the bar. He had just come in and was standing there with a lovely black girl. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have known him, but something about the way he kept staring at her tipped me off. 

“Hello,” I said softly. “See you’re up to your old tricks.” 

“Look here!” He tried to appear arrogant, but he couldn’t hide the fright. “I don’t know you.” 

“Yes, you do,” I told him. “Yes, you do.” I pulled him away and put my mouth to his ear. When he heard what I had to say he laughed. 

“Dirty trick, trying to scare me, but I forgive you. It’s just that I didn’t expect to see you here. Where you located?” 

“Something called the Shane Apartments. And you?” 

“Oh, I’m way outside town. How do you like her?” He nudged me and indicated his girl. 

“Nice. But you know my weakness.” 

We both laughed. 

“Well,” I concluded, “I won’t disturb you any longer. I just wondered if you were making out all right.” 

“Perfectly. No trouble at all.” 

“Good,” I said. “We’ve got to be extra careful these days, with all that cheap publicity going around.” 

“I know.” He waved me along. “Best of luck.” 

“Same to you,” I said and walked back to the booth. I felt fine. 

Shirley Collins felt fine too. She’d ordered another drink during my absence. I paid and tipped the waitress. 

“My, my!” the blonde gushed. “You certainly do throw your dough around.” 

“Money means nothing to me,” I said. I fanned five twenties from the roll. “Here—have some.” 

“Why, Mr. Beers! I couldn’t, really.” 

She was positively drooling. “Go ahead,” I urged. “Plenty more where that came from. I like to see you happy.” 

So she took the money. They always do. And, if they’re as high as Shirley was, their reactions are always the same. 

“Gee, you’re a nice old guy.” She reached for my hand. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you. You know, kind and generous. And no passes, either.” 

“That’s right.” I drew my hand away. “No passes.” 

This really puzzled her. “I dunno, I can’t figure you out, Mr. Beers. Say, by the way, where’d you get all this money?” 

“Picked it up,” I told her. “It’s easy if you know how.” 

“Now you’re kidding me. No fooling, what do you do for a living?” 

“You’d be surprised.” I smiled. “Actually you might say I’m retired. I devote all my time to my hobbies.” 

“You mean, like books or paintings or something? Are you a collector?” 

“That’s right. Come to think of it, maybe you’d like to get acquainted with my collection.” 

She giggled. “Are you inviting me up to see your etchings?” 

I went right along with the gag. “Certainly. You aren’t going to pretend that you won’t come, are you?” 

“No. I’ll be glad to come.” 

She put the five twenty-dollar bills in her purse and rose. “Let’s go, Pappy.” 

I didn’t care for that “Pappy” stuff at all—but she was such a luscious blonde. Even now, slightly tipsy, she was wholly delectable. What the young folks call “a real dish.” 

A half-dozen stares knifed my back as we walked past the bar on our way outside. I knew what they were thinking. “Old dried-up fossil like that with a young girl. What’s the world coming to nowadays?” 

Then, of course, they turned back to their drinks, because they really didn’t want to know what the world was coming to nowadays. Bombs can drop, saucers can fly, and still people will sit at bars and pass judgments between drinks. All of which suits me perfectly. 

Shirley Collins suited me perfectly, too, at the moment. I had no difficulty finding a cab or bundling her inside. “Shane Apartments,” I told the driver. Shirley snuggled up close to me. 

I pulled away. 

“What’s the matter, Pappy—don’t you like me?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“Then don’t act as if I was gonna bite you.” 

“It’s not that. But I meant it when I said I had no—er—intentions along such lines.” 

“Sure, I know.” She relaxed, perfectly content. “So I’ll settle for your etchings.” 

We pulled up and I recognized the building. I gave the driver a ten-dollar bill and told him to keep the change. 

“I can’t figure you out, Mr. Beers,” Shirley said—and meant it. “Way you toss that moola around.” 

“Call it one last fling. I’m leaving town shortly.” I took her arm and we stepped into the lobby. The self-service elevator was empty. I pressed the button for the top floor. We rose slowly. 

On the way up Shirley sobered suddenly. She faced me and put her arms on my shoulders. “Look here, Mr. Beers. I just got to thinking. I saw a movie once and—say, what I mean is, way you hand out dough and talking about leaving town and all—you aren’t sick, are you? I mean, you haven’t just come from the doctor and heard you’re gonna die from some disease?” 

Her solicitude was touching, and I didn’t laugh. “Really,” I said, “I can assure you that your fears are groundless. I’m very much alive and expect to stay that way for a long time to come.” 

“Good. Now I feel better. I like you, Mr. Beers.” 

“I like you, too, Shirley.” I stepped back just in time to avoid a hug. The elevator halted and we got out. I led her down the hallway to the stairs. 

“Oh, you have the penthouse!” she squealed. Now she was really excited. 

“You go first,” I murmured. 

She went first. At the top of the stairs she halted, puzzled. “But there’s a door here—it’s the roof or something.” 

“Keep going,” I directed. 

She stepped out on the rooftop and I followed. The door closed behind us, and everything was still. 

Everything was still with a midnight stillness. Everything was beautiful with a midnight beauty. The dark body of the city stretched below us, wearing its neon necklaces, its bracelets and rings of incandescence. I’ve seen it many times from the air, many times from rooftops, and it’s always a thrilling spectacle to me. Where I come from things are different. Not that I’d ever care to trade—the city’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. 

I stared, and the blonde stared. But she wasn’t staring at the streets below. 

I followed her gaze to the shadow of the building abutment, to the deep shadows where something shimmered roundly and iridescently in the darkness. It was completely out of sight from the surrounding buildings, and it couldn’t be seen at first glance from the doorway here on the roof. But she saw it now, and she said, “Gee!” 

She said, “Gee! Mr. Beers—look at that!” 

I looked. 

“What is it, a plane? Or—could it be one of those saucer things?” 

I looked. 

“Mr. Beers, what’s the matter?—you aren’t even surprised.” 

I looked. “You—you knew about this?” 

“Yes. It’s mine.” 

“Yours? A saucer? But it can’t be. You’re a man and—” 

I shook my head slowly. “Not exactly, Shirley. I don’t really look like this, you know. Not where I came from.” I gestured down toward the tired flesh. “I borrowed this from Ril.” 

“Ril?” 

“Yes. He’s one of my friends. He collects too. We all collect, you know. It’s our hobby. We come to Earth and collect.” 

I couldn’t read her face, because as I came close she drew away. 

“Ril has a rather curious hobby, in a way. He collects nothing but B’s. You should see his trophy room! He has a Bronson, three Bakers, and a Beers—that’s the body I’m using now. Its name was Ambrose Beers, I believe. He picked it up in Mexico a long time ago.” 

“You’re crazy!” Shirley whispered, but she listened as I went on. Listened and drew away. 

“My friend Kor has a collection of people of all nations. Mar you saw in the tavern a while ago—Melanesian types are his hobby. Many of us come here quite often, you know, and in spite of the recent publicity and the danger, it’s an exhilarating pastime.” I was quite close to her now, and she didn’t step back any further. She couldn’t—she stood on the edge of the roof. 

“Now, take Vis,” I said. “Vis collects redheads, nothing but redheads. He has a magnificent grouping, all of them stuffed. Ril doesn’t stuff his specimens at all—that’s why we can use them for our trips. Oh, it’s a fascinating business, I can tell you! Ril keeps them in preservative tanks and Vis stuffs them—his redheads, I mean. Now as for me, I collect blondes.” 

Her eyes were wide, and she could scarcely get the words out for panting. “You’re—going to—stuff me?” 

I had to chuckle. “Not at all, dear. Set your mind at rest. I neither stuff nor preserve. I collect for different reasons entirely.” She edged sideways, toward the iridescent bubble. There was nowhere else to go, and I followed closely, closely. 

“You’re—fooling me—” she gasped. 

“No. Oh, my friends think I have peculiar ideas, but I enjoy it this way. There’s nothing like a blonde, as far as I’m concerned. And I ought to know. I’ve collected over a hundred so far since I started. You are number one hundred and three.” 

I didn’t have to do anything. She fainted, and I caught her, and that made things just perfect—no need to make a mess on the roof. I merely carried her right into the ship and we were off in a moment. 

Of course people would remember the old man who picked up Shirley Collins in the dance hall, and I’d left a trail of money all over town. There’d be an investigation and all that. There almost always was an investigation. 

But that didn’t bother me. Ril has many bodies for use besides old Beers, whoever he might have been. Next time I’d try a younger man. Variety is the spice of life. 

Yes, it was a very pleasant evening. I sang to myself almost all the way back. It had been good sport, and the best was yet to come. 

But then, I like blondes. They can laugh at me all they please—I’ll take a blonde any time. As I say, it’s a matter of taste. 

And blondes are simply delicious.