March 6, 1956

Dear Rosetta:

Tonight I completed arrangements for the class' final party which will be held on April 4. We will have the whole club to ourselves with an orchestra, a steak--filet-mignon dinner preceded by hors d'oeuvres.  There will be approximately 60 people attending, 10 of which are guests.  Some 18 of the officers expect to have their wives preset.   The orchestra is a pretty good one, though it specializes in jump music with an occasional Latin-American number which is invariably unappreciated.  All in all, a good time should be had by all.

As I had anticipated, there were the usual dissenters, those who must always place obstacles in the path of every body else's fun, but finally our committee, headed by old CG carried the day. Only six will not attend.

It would be nice to have you here for the party, just so I might show off a little.  Without a doubt you would be the sensation of the night and many a Southern Belle would bite her nails and say la de da or fiddle dee dee. I wish it could be.

Did you ever receive a letter in which I described my visit to the ice-show?  Curious because I know you would not let a mention of anything to do with ice shows go without mention. Perhaps the letter got lost.

The perfume you have ben using on your letters this last ten days of so is intoxication.  Is it something new?

Had a chicken dinner tonight--southern fried.  They bread it somehow and deep fry.  It is pretty good. The chickens in this area are cheap and they are meaty.  I have chicken quite often.

The waitress that served us reminded me of X. Not in looks of course since she is a once pretty girl of about 37, padded to make up for nature's cruelest oversight to a woman, with muscled, scrawny red arms and rough red hands.  The similarity I saw was in the way she continually glanced at herself in the mirror.  Mercifully, the lights in this combination restaurant and bar are dim.  I have seen her in the day and her face is a wrinkled as a crone's.

Among other interesting features of this place is the requirement by the boss that the girls dance with the clientele.  Those men who take advantage of this cruelest form of exploitation of stupidity and need handle the girls in the most overtly familiar manner you can imagine.  It seems to have no visible effect on the girls.  They are apparently used to it and not the least bit offended.  Cauldwell and Faulkner do not exaggerate in their descriptions of various phases of Southern life.

I was flatter to hear that you dreamt of me or thought I was asking you something.  Clearly, I am on your mind, which is good, because you are in my heart.

Love, Buddy.