Talking about types of people

Types People Talk About

The people we meet along life’s pathways put on the world’s greatest show of shows. Some performers entertain us with their admirable assets, others limp through the program as liabilities. Some play up their vices, others turn to virtues. Most of them are sincere, but now and then we watch a phoney go through his act. There are a few comics, but the majority are serious, sober people. There are types that are typical and those that are colorful. . . what a kaleidoscope, this passing parade! Appearances so often are deceptive-just as today’s dollar is; it looks as it did ten years ago, but there the similarity stops. It is often necessary to talk of a type of person and these generalities can be adjusted to fit.

Wolf

Even when knighthood was in flower, a wolf could make news-remember Red Riding Hood? Today a young lady doesn’t run into only one wolf in a lifetime, she finds them on every corner and in the middle of the block. These predatory males are guys who know all the ankles; tall, dark and all hands they’re single men with a double purpose. The age of a wolf is an undetermined thing embracing terrific teen-agers; college kids too poor for etchings (they ask a co-ed to come-up-and-see-the-handwriting-on-the-wall); prowlers who trip the night fantastic; and worn out roues wearing faces filled with broken commandments.

Old Rou

Spring brings everything out into the sunshine, from crew-cut youngsters on scooters to romantic old roosters sporting talc at their temples. Some of these big dame hunters won their first girls on a bicycle built for two- now they’re playboys dabbling in stocks and blondes . . . romantic old duffers who enjoyed every decade of a riotous life with a last ditch buoyancy that makes Don wan by comparison. Usually they are amorous old goats-every other inch a gentleman. Girls keep running through their minds-they don’t dare slow down to a walk. One deserter from the ranks of these roues fell for the frills of a charming widow. She turned him into a house-broken husband-a tired old tomcat who wants only to hurry home and purr by her fireside.

Cad

A heel can be a hero in rusty armor but a cad is just a low-bred bum who clings to the bottom rung of society’s ladder. He may be blessed with a chess champ’s mentality but his pick-pocket instincts pop out. His frustrations and complexes he blames on his Father, because “the old boy never applied the paternal board to my understanding during my formative years.” On the sands of time he doesn’t even leave the marks of a heel.

One cad was the offspring of a pair of bad ancestors. His father was a petty thief, his mother a kleptomaniac. After Willie was born the doctor missed his watch and didn’t find it until the nurse unclenched the wee fellow’s fist. A cad never will admit that he’s a self-made problem child. One of them spent a fortune to cure his halitosis-only to find that his friends didn’t like him anyway.

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