National Affairs: Dorothy & George Something

Beneath her brass-blonde chignon, Dorothy Lawlor’s busy brain had cased all the angles. She had been married at 15, divorced at 19. She had two kids, no man, and a flock of debts. Now she was 27, and checking hats in Johnny Shields’s Midway Inn, Valley Stream, Long Island (pronounced “Long Guyland”).

After some months of mental thrashing, an idea, full-armed but of unfettered simplicity, sprang from Dorothy’s head. Last week, she called Newsday, a Hempstead, L.I. tabloid,* and said she wanted to place an ad. She would marry any man who would support her and the children and give her $10,000 cash, right away. Newsday refused the ad, but ran the story. All at once, Dorothy was famous—well, talked about. Reporters came to interview her, and photographers to take her picture. She submitted with garrulous assurance, was photographed from many angles and in negligee. At a table in the Inn she did some interviewing herself—of the men who thought her worth $10,000.

Money, Money, Money. “I just don’t believe in love any more,” said Dorothy. Her voice had the gently feminine tone of a bent gong. “I’m looking for just one thing—money, money, money.” She hadn’t expected to attract so much attention, and she hoped it wouldn’t embarrass her parents (with whom her children live). She favored a “decent type” for a husband, someone “not too old.” And in a hurry. She had enough money to last about a week.

“When I get that guy,” she continued, “the first thing I want to do is take a trip to Mexico. He’ll have to buy me a toy fox terrier, one that weighs less than two pounds. I love the things.” She fingered the borrowed pearls on her chic black dress, tugged at the borrowed fur coat she was wearing.

Letters, telephone calls, telegrams and suitors began to crowd her. Two guys named George (“George Something—I can’t remember”) offered themselves. One wanted to take her home right away. Dorothy wouldn’t let him. The other thought better of the proposition next day.

Pay Dirt in the Blue Grass. From Daytona Beach one gallant telegraphed: “Do nothing till you hear from me. Might go as high as 12 or 13Gs.” Then a man from Lexington, Ky. burned up the long distance wires, begging Dorothy to hold off until he could get up to Valley Stream. He telegraphed a $100 down payment. Dorothy described him as a horse breeder named Arthur Howard, said he was a boyish 42 and almost six feet tall. “He’s got oodles of do-re-mi,” she added softly.

At week’s end, Dorothy was a trifle piqued over one incident. A woman called and told her that she, too, was a divorcee with two children and would Dorothy please send her any men she didn’t want. “I told her,” said Dorothy coldly, “to get her own man. I’m not running a matrimonial bureau.”

* Owned by Alicia Patterson, daughter of the late Joseph Medill Patterson, founder of the New York Daily News.