Of course Don didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with Bethenny.
At least Bethenny has the good sense, even if it was calculated, not to let Don walk her to her Barbizon door. ”I do a lot of mock drinking, I’m a wench, I’m a courtesan, part of a harem, it depends on the opera,” she said, describing countless women who have amused Don for single evenings. ”I’m an actress!” Actually, she’s a super in an opera company, one of the stage fillers hired to take up space. ”What do you do?” he wondered, stumped it seemed by her bright obsequiousness. Don looked at her like he was trying not to laugh. ”The world is so very dark right now,” she said. And she was just terribly upset about the troubled state of our country, what with a local boy having just been killed down there in Mississippi. And very shocked to be breaking her rule about never dating a divorced man. Bethenny was very excited about her borrowed dress. Bethenny was a poor man’s Betty, though light and airy where the former Mrs. Beforehand he looked a little like the guy we expect to see in the mirror - hair perfect and he knows it. (Oh Roger, not one for the times they are a changin’, are ya buddy?) Don agreed to go out on a date with Jane’s friend. ”Someone white to carve our turkey,” he responded. ”Whaddya need?” Don wondered when Roger first bursts into his office.
NEXT: Someone knows one of Don’s tricksRoger pretended to be worried about his quietly floundering friend, imploring Don to spend the holiday with him and Jane and Jane’s limber gal pal. But seriously, this world was usually vulgar in action rather than language, no? Is this simply a sign of bluer times?) ”You know one of them is leaving New York with VD.” (Is it just me or is there a new coarseness in the air? The accountant’s inquiry into the state of Don’s balls, Roger’s suggestion that Don could ”stuff” Jane’s friend at Thanksgiving, Don’s somewhat startling request of his hooker - now, now. ”I love how they sit there like a couple choirboys,” Roger said, after too late realizing that his leering over their catalogue models was most decidedly the wrong opener. His accountant, grumbly about the fact that Don continued to pay the mortgage on a house another man now uncomfortably calls home, waited for him on one of the agency’s primary-colored sofas in the lobby while a couple of prudes panted for a campaign that removed any hint of sex from their bikini.
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His apartment was dingy, the windows fogged with smoke and cramped masculinity. ”A wooden leg? They’re so cheap they couldn’t even afford a whole reporter,” he groused afterwards.įor all Don’s youthful vigor in that zingy last hour of Season 3, a year later he was still ever the man adrift. Roger, a man born to dish up a good quote, couldn’t quite mask his envy at not being the interviewee. When Roger and Pete strode upon the scene, Pete simpered as only he can in the royal we about the reporter’s service in Korea and the foot it cost him. This little gimme interview with Ad Age, coupled with Don’s coup of a cinematic campaign for some floor wax, was a chance to plant the new firm’s flag. SCDP needed to gin up some business and fast. The rogue crew that jumped ship from the British-invaded Sterling Cooper graduated from their hotel room to a spare midtown office on one floor (two if you’re talking to a reporter or a client) with paper-thin walls and no conference table.
We have a new President (Johnson), new landmark legislation (a Civil Rights act that Johnson helped push through the Senate), a new favorite band (the Beatles), and a new man sleeping under Don’s icy blue bedroom sheets (old Henry, dryly kissing Betty’s hand good night). Since we all last saw Don, standing alone in the West Village, hopeful the promise of a new beginning, a year has passed.