Free Hello Darlin' by LARRY HAGMAN Page B

and coffeehouses, discuss important social issues,
     and attend the symphony. Henri told me she was a beautiful blonde, sharp, funny, and
     sensible. I liked what I saw from the moment I looked into her blue eyes.
    And Maj? She thought I was cute. She gave me that much. From what she later told me,
     she liked a lot of things about me, including my sense of humor. Mostly she liked
     that I was very different from anybody she’d ever met and that I seemed to make my
     own rules.
    “Almost everything is right,” she confided to Henri.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked.
    “Larry’s an American. He couldn’t be more American.”
    She’d lived in England for three years. During that time, she’d assumed the snobbery
     of her clique, and all of them looked down on the American servicemen they saw in
     Piccadilly. She quoted the popular saying at the time. “There are three things wrong
     with them,” she’d say. “They’re overpaid, oversexed, and over here.”
    But she thought I was different. She’d flipped when I played her a George Shearing
     album, and she liked that my record collection also included Vivaldi and Gregorian
     chants. She also liked that I was able to sell her black market cigars for her boss,
     which incidentally helped pay for my rent. In any event, I seemed to have taste and
     connections, so when I finally asked her out, she said yes.
    For our first date, I took her to the Colony Club, a very posh night-clubon Berkeley Square. It was a freebie for me, since I was looking for acts for the
     NCO clubs. Everything was comped, from champagne to dinner. Maj seemed to be very
     impressed. Eventually we went out three or four nights a week to clubs around London,
     always free. I was constantly searching for new acts, and I wanted to see Maj as much
     as possible. It worked out well.
    My travels to the Continent with
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often kept us out of touch for long periods of time. I let her know I was thinking
     about her by sending her notes on the back of menus. She claims there were only three.
     When I was around, we were almost inseparable and had a ball. We ran all over London
     on my Vespa motor scooter. We hung out in coffeehouses and pubs, always running into
     people we knew, as if London were a small town. I was pretty serious about her, but
     I was constantly going away on trips and she worked hard.
    About six months into our relationship, I went away on another long trip, this one
     lasting three months, and during that time Maj rented my apartment from me. She cleaned
     it up, repainted it, and slipcovered all the furniture. Clearly she improved my life.
     When I returned we planned to celebrate my twenty-third birthday by going to the theater.
     It was raining that night, a hellish downpour, and I waited for Maj in the NCO club
     at Burdrop Park, about sixty miles outside of London.
    She was late. Several hours went by. I figured she was having trouble in the weather.
     The whole base knew she was late. When Maj arrived at the front gate, the guard told
     her that I was waiting for her in the bar at the NCO club. Indeed, I was—having my
     third or fourth martini. Finally, Maj pulled up in front in a little Morgan sports
     car. The top and the windshield were down. She was drenched, but explained she could
     see better with the top down.
    With great difficulty, we put the top up, bailed the car out, and I got into the sopping
     wet driver’s seat. I was intent on making the second act.
    “I’ll drive,” I said, not thinking that as I put the sports car into reverse my blood
     was higher proof than a Molotov cocktail.
    Once outside the base, I made a wrong turn and drove onto a field that had been used
     for practice by the British army’s Tank Corps. The ground had been churned into a
     muddy quicksand. The little Morgan immediately sank up to its hubcaps in this muck.
     We could not budge. I stared out the window, into the darkness, and then turned to
     Maj, shaking my head