DECEMBER 24, 2023 – (Cont.) As my Grandpa Nilsson used to say on this day (out of earshot of other adults, except Dad), “’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring . . . not even a mouse turd.” Then he’d laugh at his own joke, and as a young kid, I’d laugh too, delighted that Grandpa—who could be so serious about things such as why I should practice my violin—had a lighter side, one even featuring scatological humor.
Which takes us to a somewhat related form of humor experienced by the late “Gentle Giant,” whom I introduced in memoriam to my readers yesterday.
During the spring semester of our senior year of college, recruiters from large corporations arrived on campus to interview students interested in business careers. Most students, it seemed, were destined for med school or law school; a smaller group for biz school; a smaller cadre yet aimed for real adventure, such as graduate studies in urban planning, journalism, or getting down to the nitty gritty of reality an a completely alien scale, such joining the Peace Corps and heading off for, say, Mali. That still left a number of students interested in joining corporate America. Dave Totman was among them.
He’d signed up for an interview with a representative of IDS.[1] Dave thought the company had good opportunities for him, and when I ran into him the night before, he was uncharacteristically serious. He’d devoted considerable time to completing the application and getting his interview suit dry-cleaned, shirt pressed, everything laid out for the 8:30 a.m. interview—the whole nine yards. He’d already set his alarm clock to give himself plenty of time to shave, shower, dress, and down a full breakfast, with time to spare for the short walk to the on-campus interview. I wished him good luck.
I next saw Dave on his way to lunch the next day. He was back in street clothes, coming from class and walking more slowly than you normally moved.
“Dave! How’d it go? How did your interview go?” I said,
He stopped in his tracks. “It was a disastah,” he said with his Weymouth (MA) accent.
The whole thing, start to finish—complete disastah.” But shaking his head he couldn’t suppress a smile, then a full laugh.
“Tell me about it.”
“Well for starters, my damn alarm clock didn’t work. When I woke up—on my own—I knew somethin’ was wrong. Sure enough. Looked at the clock and it said 8:20. I scrambled, skipped the shower, didn’t bother shavin’, just jumped into my clothes, tied my tie, squeezed some toothpaste into my mouth, and headed out the door. Didn’t even bother to comb my hair.
“From the start the IDS guy was not impressed. There I was—big me, late, hair a mess, tie crooked, lookin’ like a total goofball.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said, chuckling.
“But that wasn’t the worst of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the middle of the interview, my nose started to run. I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept sniffing really hard until I just couldn’t control it, so I wiped my nose on my sleeve, and damnit if I didn’t have a bloody nose. So then I had blood all over my suit sleeve, my shirt cuff, my hand, my face. And of course, it was my right hand, so I couldn’t even shake hands with the guy when the interview was over, and believe me, by the time the nosebleed started, the interview was pretty well finished.
“Eric,” Dave laughed, “if I were a bettin’ man—which you know I am—I’d bet 100 to one odds I’m not getting a call back on that job prospect.”
I genuinely felt Dave’s pain.
He wound up running a company selling hearing aids. As John Cross told me, at a reunion a while ago, Dave had approached in his affable way and said, “John we’re getting into that age group where we’re gonna need hearing aids. When the time comes, call me. I can get you hearing aids at a price no one else can beat.” John heard every word of Dave’s pitch—without needing hearing aids. But sadly with Dave’s passing, when John does need hearing aids, he’ll need to pay full price.
While we’re still living in a finite world, may we of the Bowdoin Class of ’76 strive to be as amiable, good-natured, and open-hearted as the “Gentle Giant.” I’m betting that he’s smiling big at infinity’s race track.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] Subsequently acquired by American Express, which, in turn, was later skippered by a fellow alumnus—Kenneth Chenault, a history major and member of the Bowdoin class of ’73—three years ahead of us.
