Leave It to Beaver (1957–1963): Season 4, Episode 10 - Wally's Glamour Girl - full transcript

[Announcer] Starring...

and...

Well, we're rather
quiet tonight.

Don't you think a little
pleasant conversation

would add to our
enjoyment of dinner?

Yeah, I guess it would, Dad.

But it cuts down
on your eating time.

Anything unusual happen
at your school, Wally?

Mr. Bromley, our
science teacher,

showed us some color slides that
he took in Washington last summer.

Well, what were they like?



Well, he had stuff like Mrs.
Bromley in front of the Senate Building

and Mrs. Bromley in front of
the Washington Monument,

and Mrs. Bromley in
front of the White House.

What did you think
of our nation's capital?

Well, I guess if you took
Mrs. Bromley out of it,

it'd be okay.

Beaver, you're storing food in
your cheek there like a squirrel.

Sure, Mom. By doing it this way,

I get more mileage
out of one mouthful.

Never mind the mileage, Beaver.

Just eat properly.

Yes, sir.

Well, dear, anything interesting
happen around here today?

Well, I had a letter from
Margaret Bannerman.



Her daughter, Kitty, was in
your class a few years ago, Wally.

You remember. Don't you?

Yeah.

Yeah, I remember her.

She was a girl.

And um, and I think I got a
couple letters from her last summer.

Margaret and her daughter
are coming back to Mayfield

to visit the grandmother
this weekend.

And guess what, Wally?

Um, what?

Mrs. Bannerman wants
you to take Kitty to the dance

at the Mayfield Country
Club this Saturday night.

[gulp]

What's the matter, Wally?
Don't you like Mom's carrots?

You're turning kind of green.

Something wrong, son?

Well, well um, I think the basketball
coach called an extra practice

for this Saturday night.

Oh, Wally, couldn't you skip
it and take Kitty to the dance?

After all, before they moved,

the Bannermans
were our best friends.

Well, gee, no, Mom,
'cause, well, if I do,

the coach might
cut me or something.

That's a shame.

Yeah.

Boy, that sure is
a shame, all right.

Can I be excused now, Dad?

Yeah, I suppose so.

Don't you want your desert?

Oh, no thanks, Mom.

I kind of want to get an
early start on my homework.

Well, can you imagine that?

A boy preferring
homework to dessert.

Beaver, if you eat that
slowly, you never will finish.

Gee, Dad, if I eat
too fast, I get yelled at.

And if I eat too
slow, I get yelled at.

Beaver, are you by any
chance trying to be annoying?

Oh, no, sir.

I'm not trying to be annoying.

It's just coming out that way.

You know, dear, you're
a very helpful husband.

Oh, it's my pleasure.

Do you remember the first time
you helped me do the dishes?

When we were first married?

No. It was before that.

Once, when my parents
invited you over for supper,

you practically ordered my
mother out of the kitchen,

then you held my hand
under the soap suds.

Oh, really?

Was I ever that
naive and callow?

You thought it was very
Robert Montgomery at the time.

Ouch.

Speaking of young romance,

I wish Wally could take Kitty
to that dance on Saturday.

You know, Margaret's
looking forward to it,

and I hate to disappoint her.

Honey, don't you think you
could talk him into going?

Well, dear, if he has
a basketball practice,

he can't let the team down.

Well, you think it shows
very good manners

for a boy to put
basketball ahead of girls?

Well, no, not good manners,

but a solid sense of values.

You really doing
homework, Wally?

Yeah, I'm really
doing my homework.

But you didn't not really
want dessert tonight. Did you?

Well, maybe I didn't really
not want dessert tonight.

What about it?

You wanted to get away

from talking about that
Kitty girl, didn't you?

Look, Beaver, it's bad
enough I got a kid brother.

But you don't have to
go and make it worse

by being right all the time.

What's wrong with Kitty
Bannerman, outside of being a girl?

Look, Beaver, if I tell you,

you promise you
won't tell anybody?

Well, sure. Cross my heart

and hope to never
see television again.

Well, okay.

This is why I can't go
out with Kitty Bannerman.

Gee.

These look like letters.

They are letters.

They're letters from
Kitty Bannerman.

How come? She
moved away from here

three or four years ago.

Well, the how come is that last
summer when I was up at camp,

some of the big shots up there
were getting letters from girls

and reading them out loud.

Well, I guess I wanted
to be a big shot, too.

You mean you
wrote junk to this Kitty

and she wrote junk back to you?

Yeah. And I laid
it on real thick

so she'd really think
I was something.

What kind of junk
did she write you?

Well, here's a letter
she wrote me in August.

"Dearest Wally, I stayed
awake all last night

"thinking about
your last letter.

"It's wonderful to think
that such a darling,

"popular boy, with his
own car and everything,

really cares
about little old me."

His own car and everything?

Well, this Kitty really
does have her own car

'cause her pop's got
all kinds of money.

So I had to write and tell her

that I had my own car

so she wouldn't
think I was a creep.

How come she called you dearest

and all that mushy junk?

Oh, well, that's on account
of the last letter I wrote her.

I called her honey and
told her that I liked her.

I did that so that she'd
write me some good stuff

that I could read
to the guys at camp.

What else did she write you?

Gee, I don't know if I
should let a little kid like you

hear stuff like this.

Oh, come on, Wally, the
only kind of letters I ever get

are to go to birthday parties or
subscribe to magazines and stuff.

Well, okay.

Well, it, ah, it starts
up here and it says,

"my darling dream sweetheart,"

and then there's all kinds
of romantic junk about me

being the absolute most,

and then down here it
says, "yours forever, Kitty."

Wow.

What's this?

Oh, that's her
picture she sent me.

She's wearing an evening gown

with all kinds of pieces of
chrome plating stuck on it.

They call them sequins.

This is her picture?

Yeah.

Well, I had it in my
pocket up at camp

and some wise guy
pushed me in the lake.

The face got kind
of dissolved on me.

Oh.

Boy, Wally, I thought
when you grew up,

you were supposed
to get smarter.

Gee, Beaver, it just
got away from me.

Besides saying
that I have a car,

I said that I have a tuxedo

and go to big society
dances all the time

and Dad's a president of a bank.

And I even said that
last New Year's Eve,

Mom gave a party where
Frank Sinatra sang for nothing,

on account of he's
a friend of hers.

No wonder you turned
green when you heard

that Kitty was
coming to Mayfield.

Yeah.

June!

June, I'm home.

So I see.

Oh, hi.

Hi.

What are you hiding there for?

I'm not hiding.

I'm just thinking.

Oh, in the future,

I wish you'd do your
thinking out in the open.

Are the boys home
from school yet?

Beaver isn't.

Wally's upstairs.

What's in the paper?

A fuzzy caterpillar.

The paper boy
threw it in the bushes.

What were you thinking about?

I guess the dance
Saturday night.

I just wish Wally could
go with Kitty to the dance.

I thought you were
resigned to the fact

that he has basketball practice.

Well, I am, but I'm
disappointed too.

You know, they have that
new ballroom at the club.

There's an orchestra, and
girls in their pretty party dresses.

Sounds like a lovely affair.

You know, dear, this sort
of bears out a theory I have.

What theory?

Well, I think that about half
of the parties and dances

that people
arrange for their kids

are really for the sole
enjoyment of the mothers.

Oh, Ward.

Now you take a basketball game.

There you... [doorbell rings]

I'll get it.

Good afternoon, Mr. Cleaver.

Oh, hello, Eddie.

Is Wally home yet?

Yeah, I think he's
up in his room.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Cleaver.

Good afternoon, Eddie.

I had to stay a little
late after school today.

Oh, extra study halls, Eddie?

Oh, no, sir.

I'm the manager of the
high school basketball team,

the Mayfield Crusaders,

and the coach often consults me

when he needs
someone to lean on.

Why, I'm sure he does, Eddie.

The coach and I were discussing
our next game on the 14th.

Well, you fellas should
certainly be well prepared.

Wally tells me you have an
extra practice this Saturday night.

Extra practice?

Oh, no, sir. He
couldn't have said that.

Just yesterday, the coach and
I were discussing the schedule.

He needs someone
to lean on, you know.

You sure about this practice?

Oh, yes, sir.

Is it all right if I go
on up, Mr. Cleaver?

Yeah, of course.

No basketball practice
Saturday night?

That's right. No
basketball practice.

Hey, what's the
matter with your pop?

All I said was you didn't
have any practice Saturday

and he started
giving me the fish eye.

Hey, Eddie, you
didn't really tell him

we don't have any practice
this Saturday, did you?

Well, sure.

Oh, boy, Eddie, if
you went and did that,

you just about ruined me.

I told Mom and Dad
we had a practice.

Well, gee, Wally, why
don't you tip me off

if you want me to cover for you?

Look, like I told
you before, Sam,

we got to stick together or
we're gonna lose this Cold War

with the adults.

Boy, oh, boy. What a mess.

Hey, what do you got
planned for this Saturday?

You gonna put on a homburg hat

and try to get into one of
those movies for adults only?

No, Eddie. I made it up
about the basketball practice

on account of I'm on the spot.

That's why.

Oh, gee, I'm sorry,
Wally, if I messed you up.

It's not like me to go
around telling the truth

to grownups like that.

That's okay, Eddie.

Look, would you do me a favor?

Well, sure.

Well, would you mind leaving now

'cause, well, I got a feeling
my Dad's gonna come up here

and start asking
me a lot of questions,

and I'd rather be
alone when he does it.

Sure, Wally.

Hi, Wally. Hi, Eddie.

Hi, Beaver.

I'm really sorry, Wally.

Oh, that's okay, Eddie.

You know, Wally, there
must be something wrong

with Eddie today.

What do you mean?

Well, he said he was
sorry about something

and he didn't even insult me.

Boy, there's gonna be
something wrong with me too

when Dad gets up here.

He just found out I made
up about basketball practice.

Uh-oh.

Look, Beaver, would
you do me a favor?

Sure, Wally. I'll
get out of here.

I like to be alone too
when Dad's yelling at me.

I just can't
understand it, Wally.

Why would you
deliberately make up a story

about basketball
practice Saturday night?

I don't know.

Wally, why in the
world would you want

to get out of going
to a lovely dance

at the country club?

I don't know.

Do you have any
explanation for your behavior?

I don't know, Dad.

Well, what do you know?

I don't know that either.

Young man, do you
think this is funny?

Well, I did, but I don't now.

All right, Wally, if you
won't answer our questions,

you leave us no alternative.

Now you're going to
take Kitty Bannerman

to that dance Saturday night.

I'll drive you there at eight.

I'll pick you up at 12.
You'll wear your blue suit,

and you're going to
enjoy every minute of it.

Do you understand?

Yes, sir. I'm going to
enjoy every minute of it.

I'll write a note to
Mrs. Bannerman

and accept the
invitation for you, Wally.

No, June. Right
after supper tonight,

Wally is going to go upstairs

and write his own
note of acceptance.

Yes, sir.

Ward, I just don't understand
Wally acting like this.

It isn't like him.

Well, I know it's not. I
don't understand it either.

Beaver, do you have any idea
why Wally would make up a thing

like this basketball practice?

I guess because it
isn't football season.

Hey, what are you doing?

I'm putting my right
sock on my left foot

and my left sock
on my right foot.

That way the hole doesn't
always come by my big toe.

Yeah.

Are you really writing a
note to Kitty Bannerman,

like Dad said you should?

Yeah. I just finished it.

What'd you say?

Well, first I said I'd be happy
to go to the dance with her.

But you're not happy to
go to the dance with her.

Of course not.

Then why'd you say you were
happy to go to the dance with her

if you're not happy to
go to the dance with her?

Beaver, it's good
manners to tell somebody

you'd be happy to go with them,

even if you'd rather be dead.

Oh.

Do you think she'll
still go with you

when she finds out you
don't have your own car

and you don't have a tuxedo suit

and Dad's not a bank
president and all that?

Well, I kind of got that
fixed up in the letter.

Yeah? Let me hear it.

Well...

First I said, "Dear
Miss Bannerman"...

That's to cancel out
all that honey junk

I was writing her last summer.

Yeah.

"I'll be happy to go
"to the dance with you

even in spite of the
accident and everything."

Accident?

Yeah.

"I don't know if you heard,

"but I was at a big party
last week for rich people

and a Rolls Royce smashed
up my car in the parking lot."

Boy.

Yeah.

"On account of it being fixed,

"I thought it would be fun
to have my Dad drive us

"to the dance.

"I asked my father,
and he said sure.

"It isn't everybody that can have
a bank president as a chauffeur.

Ha ha."

Takes care of the car.

What about the tuxedo?

Oh, well, I got a P.S. in here.

"P.S. It is okay if you wear one
of your expensive evening dresses

"but I will have to
wear my blue suit.

"My mother loaned my tuxedo
to a friend of Frank Sinatra's

"who spilled something on it.

Yours truly, Wally Cleaver."

Well, what do you
think of it, Beav?

What do you think of it, Wally?

I think it's the craziest
thing I ever read.

So do I.

Yeah.

What are you gonna do now?

Well, I'm just gonna write
her a regular note saying

I'll be happy to take
her to the dance.

I hope I croak
before Saturday night.

Big party for rich people.

Smashed up my car.

My father, a bank president.

You say you found this
in Wally's waste basket?

Yes, and there's
something in there

about loaning his tuxedo.

Now, I know he never mailed it,

but why in the world would
he write anything like that?

Now, wait a minute, dear.

I think I'm beginning to put
this whole thing together.

Somehow, Wally gave this
Kitty Bannerman the idea

that he's a lot more of a big
time operator than he really is.

You know, a sort
of a junior playboy

complete with his own car,

tuxedo, rich father
and everything.

I think he did mention
writing her this summer.

But, Ward, why in the
world would Wally get himself

way out on a limb
like this for a girl?

Well, dear, that's the
easiest thing in the world

for any male to do.

Honey, when you talk to Wally,

would you try to let him
know you're on his side?

Yeah, I'll try, dear.

Sometimes it's a little
difficult to convince your son

that you're really on his side.

Gee, Dad, I didn't think you
and Mom would find that letter.

Well, Wally, that's a
little beside the point now.

Look, son, I'm
trying to help you.

Now you say you wrote her

six or seven letters
this summer, huh?

Yeah. And in each one of them,

I made myself a bigger
shot than the one before.

Well, the guys really
thought I was something

getting letters from a
glamorous girl like Kitty.

Well, Wally, all of us
like to feel important.

But I'm afraid you sort of
went at this the wrong way.

Have you figured
a way out of it yet?

Well, Eddie Haskell
had a suggestion.

What was it?

Well, he said that if I drank

about a quart of chocolate syrup

and then a whole
bottle of vinegar,

I wouldn't be able
to go to any dances

for a couple of weeks.

No, son.

Now, it's not easy,

but I think you'd better
just hope for the best

and tell this girl the truth.

Well, but, gee, Dad.

Her father really does
have a lot of money

and she has a couple of
fur coats and her own car

and she goes to parties
with rich guys all the time

and gee, if she finds
out what I am tonight,

she'll have everybody at
the dance laughing at me.

It's too bad you didn't
think of that, isn't it,

before you pretended to
be something you're not.

Okay, Dad.

But, Kitty and her mom are
staying over at her grandparents

for the weekend and,

well, when you drive me over
there to pick her up tonight,

would you kind of do me a favor?

What is it?

Well, would you mind
parking down the street aways

and kind of waiting out in
the car for a couple of minutes,

you know, so I can tell
Kitty what a nothing I am

without anybody being around?

Son, if you want me to,

I'll wait out in the
car for 20 minutes.

Gee, thanks, Dad.

[doorbell rings]

Um, this is the
Miller house, isn't it?

Yes, it is.

Well, then, you must be Kitty?

Yes.

Well, hi, I'm Wally Cleaver.

It's nice to see
you again, Wally.

Well, I thought maybe your mom
would answer the door or something.

Well, when I heard
you drive up in your car,

I got to the door first.

Yeah.

Look, Kitty, before we
go to the country club,

could I talk to you about
something for a minute?

Of course, Wally.

Would you like to sit down?

Yeah, sure, if it won't
bend your dress or anything.

Before you start, could
I say something first?

Well, yeah, sure.

I just want to tell you that,

well, if you don't want to
take me to the dance tonight,

it's all right with me and I
won't blame you in the least.

Hmm?

I know how
disappointed you must be

after all those letters I wrote

not to see me in a
glamorous evening gown

with a mink stole and an
expensive hairdo and everything,

like the girls you're
used to going out with.

But, gee, Kitty, I...

I shouldn't have written
you all those silly letters

with all that romantic
talk and everything.

But after you told me
how popular you were,

and how rich and everything,

and how you and your folks
knew all those celebrities,

I just couldn't
resist getting letters

from such a
glamorous, exciting boy.

Holy mackerel.

That picture I sent
you wasn't me at all.

It was my older
sister. Well, that's that.

As I said, if you're ashamed
to take me to the country club

to meet all your
wealthy friends,

I'll understand.

Ha.

I don't blame you
for laughing at me.

Oh, gee, Kitty. I'm
not laughing at you.

It's just that, well, I'm so happy
about what you just said that,

well, I don't know what to say.

Happy?

Yeah.

You see, I don't
have any rich friends

or I don't have a
car or a tuxedo or,

my father isn't the
president of any bank.

- You know something else?
- What?

If Frank Sinatra ever
said hello to my mother,

she'd probably have to go
to bed for a couple of weeks.

Your letters were
just as phony as mine?

Boy, I'll say they were.

Wally, I've been
worrying all week

because I thought this would
be the worst evening in my life.

But now I have the feeling
it might be one of the nicest.

You know, I kind of got
that same feeling myself.

You said you didn't
have a car, Wally.

Is that one of your
friends out there

waiting to drive
us to the dance?

You know, I never thought
much about it before,

but, I guess he's probably
one of the best friends I got.

You're real sneaky, Wally.

You'd make a real neat burglar.

Beaver, you're not supposed
to be awake this late.

Well, I was asleep and then
I was dreaming I was awake,

so I figured I might
as well be awake.

Did you stay for
the whole dance?

Well, sure I did.

Gee, I thought when that girl
found out you were nothing,

she might sock you or something.

Nobody socked anybody.
I had a real good time.

You did?

Well, sure. Everything
turned out great

on account of she turned
out to be a nothing too.

- No foolin'?
- Yeah.

She was writing those goofy
letters the same way I was.

She just wanted
to be a big shot too.

You know, Wally,
I've been thinking.

Yeah?

Maybe girls aren't so different

from boys after all.