A dude, according to contemporary sources, was a man of many affectations. Even a small town dude would speak with drawl which was something of a mix of English and Bostonian. Most sentences began with “I say”, ended with “don’t chew know” and questions were answered with “raaather”. Though he looked and spoke as if he’d just stepped from Pall Mall, he’d probably never been to London at all.
You’d find him wearing extremely tight (with the cuffs rolled up) or extremely loose pants (tucked into his boots), red (or any other loudly coloured) lacquered shoes or excessively polished black boots, spotless gloves, and a tall silk hat on a jaunty angle. A monocle was optional but he’d go nowhere without his fancy cane. When said cane was not in his mouth, a cigarette was dangling there. He always had a flower with a long stem in his buttonhole, lilies being most popular. His mustache was curled to perfection. His hair was either curled, or cut short but with bangs. His collar would be tall. If it were scarf weather, his pearl scarf pin would secure it in just the right spot.
They were most populous in New York, Boston and Chicago, although they’d follow the 400 to Newport or where ever else fashion decreed when summer came.
All of this would be fine, said the editors, but a dude rarely worked - certainly not in any trade, but usually not at all. Most had money, but if not, they’d trade on real or fabricated family connections. He’d spend his day lounging from one lady’s house to another, or standing on street corners, or looking out the window of his club or Delmonico’s, sucking on the knob of his cane, and staring at passing girls. He was extremely vain and socially ambitious, his conversation vapid, and he acted as if he was a member of some imaginary aristocracy. He thought he was God’s gift to women and could be a masher, if he bothered.
Dandies, on the other hand, though they were also always well dressed and at the peak of fashion, were respectable: they had brains (and a job), and knew when to leave the ladies alone. Dandy’s like Bryon and Brummell, had they been American, would not have been considered dudes.
Later iterations in the 1910s and 1920s were called lounge lizards, jellybeans, bun dusters, drugstore cowboys and cake eaters. Around the 1920s the term dude came to define a city man who visited more rustic locals and stuck out like a sore thumb.
So Pony tells Bryon that he barely knew Angela and I’m sorry but I’m going to have to call bullshit there because literally how the fuck is that even possible?
Think about it. He grew up around the Shepards. He’s friends with Curly; even fucking Tim likes him, alright? He’s been over at their place a lot; he just says that he never saw Angela because she was “never around”???
Bitch, no. There is no way he didn’t know Angela. And there is no way Angela didn’t know Ponyboy.
Bryon claims to have been there the first time Angel met Pony and describes how her eyes “lit up” the very first time she saw him, and this was supposed to be fairly recently; this was close to around the time Bryon and Angela broke up. You cannot tell me that was the first time she’d ever seen Ponyboy in her life if he was coming over all the time to hang out with her jackass baby brother. There is no fucking way.
You can’t tell me that Ponyboy didn’t go over to the Shepard house to hang out w/ Curly and 9 times out of 10 Angel answered the door like “Yeah he’s in jail again bye,” or “Oh he said he was going to go break somebody’s mailbox or something but he should be back soon why don’t you come in and wait for him here have some Oreos.”
You can’t tell me that when Ponyboy watched Curly fucking fall off of a telephone pole, Angela wasn’t right there beside him screaming for Curly to get his fucking dumbass down from there right now or I’m calling Tim and losing her shit panicking when he hit the ground and then screaming at him again and smacking him over the head when he turned out to be okay.
There is no goddamn way that these two did not know each other, which leads me to believe that Ponyboy was flat-out lying to Bryon because he knew Angel liked him and knew Bryon hated him for it and he didn’t want to get his ass kicked so he was just like, “Pffft, Angela Shepard who? Don’t know her. I mean yeah I’ve been to her house a lot but…uh, she’s never been there when I was. I didn’t even know Curly had a sister he never said anything about her what that’s crazy.”
“Devil in the driver’s seat” feat. Xavier Buestel and Haavard Kleppe by Byron Mollinedo with styling from Rebecca Baglini x the July 2016 issue of Essential Homme Magazine
Hair by Cyril Laforet and grooming by makeup artist Rachid Tahar