I hadn’t cranked up the software when he died, but I’ve been meaning to write down this apocryphal story about Saul Bellow. (Whose work I disdain, btw, but more on that later, after the funny.)

There was this woman I knew for awhile, through my Dad. I think she was dating his Friend Shu, but I’m not sure. Anyway, she had been involved with the University of Chicago. How? Hell, I don’t know. I was probably 16 when I heard this story. She might have been a former English grad student -- and I think she was -- but at the time my gearloose memory tells me she was involved in one of those “Ivy League Dating” businesses. (More on that later, too.)

Anyway, this woman -- let’s call her the Blonde -- claimed she had dated a lot of the “old men” in the English department at U Chicago. These guys, of whom Bellow was the Grandmaster, and I think Allen Bloom was the Grand Poobah, were all known (the Blopnde said) for dating chains. One woman at a time would cruise through their line of aging intellectualism, going out to dinner, listening to the great men pontificate, and then sleeping with them. And each of them would go to the same church Sunday morning – Episcopal, I think. Bellow was the last link in the chain of brain and cock. But he apparently didn’t sleep with all of the women who worked on the Chain Gang. If he did fuck ya, then you knew you had conquered in whatever silly way it mattered.

The Blonde described her experience on the Chain Gang, and then told the story of her dinner date with Bellow. The scuttle butt was that he didn’t like being complimented on his novels, because 1) suckups are unpleasant dinner companions; and 2) how were you, a lowly graduate student (and unsaid, but obvious, a woman) qualified to make any comment at all on the work of the Grand Master?

Yet at the same time, if you didn’t mention the books, he would also be offended. It was like the worst possible version of sitting for Oral exams. (There’s a sex joke hiding there somewhere, but I can’t quite read the map to it.)

The Blonde had prepared and planned for the dinner, yet all her preparation seemed to be wasted. Bellow stared at her stonily through the entire dinner, barely grunting as she carried the entire conversation by herself. Politics, literature, sports: no topic engaged him.

Finally, exhausted, she fell silent, only able to stare at Bellow over the post-meal drink.

At which point, Bellow said, “I’ll bet you’ve never slept with a Nobel Laureate before.”

I don’t remember if The Blonde she said she stormed out in a huff or not, but since she was telling this story to a group that included her current boyfriend, she might well have. But even at the time, all I could think was: That is the BEST pickup line I have EVER HEARD!