Academy of Careers and Technology Natural Law & Conventionalism Discussion

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Academy of Careers and Technology

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Chapter Six “WHEN I AWOKE, Anthea was already up and exercising. “What are you doing?” I said, looking over at the clock. “It’s only seven in the morning.” “I’ve got to keep my body beautiful for you,” she said as she was engaged in rapid sit-ups. Her body was lean and muscular. It was wonderful just to view her exercising wearing only her bikini panties. I watched her as she went through several sets of various exercises which aim to tone up various parts of one. I almost felt like joining her in her labor. It is not as if I hate exercise, it is just that I have always hated competitive athletics. Walking is fine. I used to do it every day to keep fit, but I never went in for anything more systematic. My limit was always a brisk half-mile walk to work. When she had finished and showered, I shaved and brushed my teeth. I used soap for lather and for dentifrice—ah it was terrible for a dentifrice. Then we sat down on the bed and talked about what we were to do. “Do you want to stay in Tomah a few more days? This is a rather nice room.” I was happy where I was. “I’m afraid that I might be traced by the car I just bought,” she said. “You really think that they are still interested?” She made a face, “Some people would go to great lengths to get what you had last night.” “How about what you had,” I replied. This Anthea reminded me of Barbara in two ways: she tended to be bossy and she seemed a little self-serving. If I was to be with her for a while, I wanted to make a few things clear. It was no good stepping from one problem into another. A clear resolve formed in my mind that I was going to be a little more assertive in my own behalf than I had previously been. “Oh, you were great, but don’t you agree that in love making that it is the woman who is the key element? It is she who brings the man pleasure.” Anthea put her hands to the bed and stuck her head out like a goat. She wasn’t trying to be ridiculous in her posture or in her argument, but she clearly was. Striking this combative pose, she thought she would intimidate me. All I could think about when I saw her in such a pose was that her breasts were hanging straight down and that she looked like a goat. The comic effect was a hindrance to my ability to speak (not, of course, the effect it was supposed to produce). “But it is the woman who gets more pleasure,” I returned. “The woman?” This response startled her. It was obvious that she lived with a particular conception of a woman as one who brings all happiness and pleasure to male-kind (it is from thence that they derive their great Power over men). But I was intent to thwart her claim. “Yes, have you ever heard of Tiresias?” “No,” was her reply. She seemed a bit peeved. “He was a famous Theban in Greek mythology.” At this she sat up. She sensed that I was about to make some claim based upon some area of which she was ignorant. To counter on my move, she walked over to the chair and began pulling on her clothes, as if to show me that she was only mildly interested in what I was going to say. “You see, Zeus and Hera were having an argument over who had more pleasure in love making: the man or the woman.” When she heard the name ‘Zeus’ she lit up. “Wasn’t Zeus the Greek god?” “That’s right. He was the number-one god and Hera was his wife.” “If they were gods, why did they have an argument?” “I don’t know—” I stammered. You see I’d forgotten about the Euthyphro. “I mean, aren’t gods supposed to have all-knowledge and stuff like that?” “Yes.” “Well then they would have no need to argue with this Tirisis.” “Tiresias,” I corrected. “Whoever,” she said. “A god has no need to argue because He knows everything.” She had now finished dressing and was tossing all available clothes into my case minus a few things which she threw over to me to wear. “That’s certainly true, but—” “So the whole story is a phony since it makes such fictitious assumptions.” I couldn’t argue with her there. There was really nothing to say to that. I could have told her that the dispute was between Zeus and Hera and not between the two of them and Tiresias and how the dispute was finished. I could have gone through the entire story and point out how it illustrated the point that I was trying to make, but that would have been to no avail. She was ready to go and I followed her out the door. I bought a map and asked her where she wanted to go. Anthea was unsure, but she declared a desire to go camping. We were in the car now. She was driving and we were on Highway 12 going toward Eau Claire. “If you want to camp, that’s all right. But I am not much of a camper.” Anthea turned her head slightly and tilted her eyebrow. She was sizing up my remark. She seemed to rather like the idea that I didn’t know much about camping. (How could I when I had never been camping in my life?) I wanted to keep this last fact secret from her if it was at all possible without lying. “’ What is it that you don’t like about camping?” She was testing me. I could tell. She wanted to see just how much I knew about camping. I could see that I was doomed. This woman just loved to lord over me. It seemed incredible to me that she could have been the mistress of a punk like Clay Macdonald, who I imagine had quite an ego problem and wouldn’t have taken her air of superiority as I did. Perhaps she was compensating for all the bad breaks she thought she had gotten with him (or with many others). “It’s rather roughing it, isn’t it?” “You talk funny. Like a university professor.” She laughed at the thought. I had not told her what I did. I thought she could have inferred it from my Hyde Park address. Most of the people who live on the nine hundred block on 55th-59th Streets either worked at the hospital or at the university. But then she may not have known Hyde Park that well. “What’s so funny?” I asked, knowing perfectly well what she would say. “I was just thinking of you as a university professor. I have you pictured in a tweed coat with patches on the elbows. You would be so stuffy, just like you are with me, but this time it’s in front of hundreds of young faces.” “I don’t have a tweed sports coat. But suppose I am—ah, rather stuffy.” She turned her face at me in surprise. I wanted to tell her to look at the road, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Your dream has come true. I am a university professor.” She turned and looked straight at me, “You aren’t.” “Yes. Couldn’t you tell by my address?” “I thought you were a salesman or marketing man or something on that line.” She smiled and shook her head, “You mean I just screwed a university professor?” “That’s right.” This thought seemed to intrigue her. It was as if she had approached a figure who was inaccessible to her, one which she had never expected to interact with in a tête-à-tête, much less a carnal adventure. “Well professor, or Doctor, or—what should I call you?” “Andrew.” “But that hardly seems appropriate.” “Cut it out.” But she wasn’t mocking me. She was genuinely in awe of my position. It was totally ridiculous. “But you haven’t told me why you wanted to go camping,” I said, trying tochangethe subject. But Icouldtell that she wasnowdifferent. She was putting a certain distance between us. I didn’t see why this should be. After all, nothing had really changed. But she continued in this way until she reached Eau Claire. Eau Claire is a fairly large small town. We decided (or rather, Anthea decided) that we would split up and buy some provisions separately which would make it harder to trace us just in case they were still on our trail and had tracked us this far. I claimed that she was being ridiculous and overly cautious, and she declared that I didn’t value her enough to think that someone who was entranced with her would give up so easily. Then it hit me. After she left to do her shopping I realized that she was probably going away for good. The stupid argument that she had just given me was only a ruse so that she could get away on her own. Her changed manner and her past behavior pointed to it: she had left me and I was on my own. Everything that had happened in the past two days was over. The chase, serendipity at finding Anthea—everything seemed at that moment to be so ephemeral. Why was I doing this? I walked over to a tavern. It was only ten o’clock in the morning but I felt like a couple of belts. I ordered a whiskey. The establishment was dark, cramped, and smelly. The only outside light came through a window at the top of the door. There was no one else in the place. The whiskey tasted awful. I didn’t want to be in there. All that would happen if I began drinking would be that I would become terribly depressed. I already had a good dose of that. It may seem hyperbolic, but I felt as if I had my whole life in front of me in a heap. It was an unorganized pile of junk. I needed some time to sort things out.Anthea had been right. Camping sounded like it would be just the thing. But I didn’t know anything about camping. I knew that if I walked into a sporting goods store and asked them for camping gear I would get taken for everything I had. The whole thing seemed to be a mess. I decided that I needed some clothes and some food and something to put them in. At least I would have to buy a ruck sack. Probably I’d need something in which to cook my food, utensils, and a sleeping bag. That sounded like the minimum needed. I left the bar and walked around looking for a sporting goods store. I did not find anything. Then I asked someone and they directed me to a place several blocks away. I had completely forgotten about Anthea. I knew that she was gone. I walked as directed and found the sporting goods store. Outside the store I saw something that made me feel excited. It was our car! She hadn’t left. Then I remembered that I had several things that I was supposed to get and hadn’t. I had wasted quite a bit of time—perhaps an hour or more. I should have been done. But then, so should she have been done. I became suspicious. What if she had been found? No, that would have been impossible. What if she had been trying to lose me and was in the process of picking up someone else right now? That was possible. I decided to wait inside the car. The door was locked. Anthea had lived too long in the city. City folk often get overly suspicious or cynical. I felt like an ass. If she wanted to go off with someone else, who was I to stop her? I had no right over her. Did I even want to stop her? I decided to walk away. It was then that she exited the store. She saw me right away. “Andrew, over here.” I was being called. “Give me a hand with this equipment.” Did I want to return? I certainly did, but something held me back. I turned and just looked at her. Did I want to waste my time on someone who would only leave me in a pinch? Was this the kind of person I wanted to associate with? Then I squinted. The sun was glaring and my eyes were in pain. She was standing there with her arms full of things— which she had purchased for us. Look, I’m not marrying her. What do I care if she shifts for herself? We all have to do that in the end. It’s no good when you only depend on another to do your shifting for you. I walked back to the car. “I’ll get the door if you let me buy you some more clothes.” She smiled. She was so beautiful when she smiled. I didn’t know why it was, but I was hypnotized by that face and her large, trusting eyes. “That’s a sucker, play” I thought, but even believing this I went back to her and loaded the car. ”Well, we’ve got almost two hundred dollars’ worth of stuff in there,” she said as she drove us to the town’s department store. Her hair was pulled back over her ear today. She was sportswoman Anthea. The special look that it had had Thursday was gone today. We needed a few other things as well. Inside the store, I bought a cheap suitcase and some more clothes for myself. Anthea bought herself a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt which said Lady of the Lake across the chest. She also (at my prodding) bought a dress which we would store in the car (and a few other items essential for any trip). After dutifully procuring her food list, we set out along Route 53 toward Chippewa Falls. It was a nice drive. The day was beautiful and I slid down into the seat and lain back my head. Anthea was a steady driver; she didn’t speed up or slow down. The two lane highway wasn’t very busy so we didn’t have to pass very many people. Anyway, we weren’t in a hurry. It was now time to sit back and enjoy the sun, scenery, and Anthea sitting next to me happily driving the car. We stopped in Chippewa Falls for a late lunch or early dinner. There is a local brewery there called Leinenkugel. Anthea tells me that it is typical for many of these Wisconsin towns to have small local breweries. The beer may be a bit uneven, but there is a special feeling one has visiting a small plant which has its own distinctive taste so different from the standardized taste of keg (CO, injected beers as are most of our major beers in this country). It reminded me of the art of the inn keeper explained to me in Cambridge by Ronnie. The beer there is actually aged in the publican’s cellars. He uses his expertise to determine the conditions under which it should be kept and when it should be tapped. It is aged and served at cool (not cold) temperatures and in casks of special woods. Finally it is loaded into gravity controlled taps after which it must be served within a certain time or it goes bad. I remember talking to many a proud publican about his system and the taste he strives after (for one shipment of bitter can certainly vary between establishments depending on the treatment given it). Some seek an even flavor while others try for that sharpness which renders its name. At any rate I enjoyed touring the brewery and the late afternoon meal. The food was reasonably priced and the beer was free. Anthea was particularly talkative. I was in very high spirits as we got back into the car and continued heading north. We passed through such thriving metropolises as Bloomier, Barron, and Spooner before changing to route 53 on our way to the campgrounds. The length of the drive was making me very tired and rather out of humor. I suddenly became very angry at Anthea for forcing me to go camping with her. I felt that she was just as demanding as a wife. Then I thought about Barbara. I don’t know what it was that soured me about Barbara. I’m not sure that we had that much to begin with outside of sex. I had only been on a few dates before and could not have been said to have had any real experience with the opposite sex. I had had no real loves before I met Barbara at New York University. I suppose it was at NYU that I first came out, so to speak. This was hard for me because I had always been so withdrawn. In high school I had been slow to physically develop. When I was a junior in high school, I was still only five foot five inches tall. I was very skinny and therefore pushed around a lot by the other boys in school. I hated athletics and never went to any of the sports events which comprised most of the school’s social life. The only game I played was chess with my father. Since my mother had died, I was very close to my father, though this is misleading because my father was a very private man. He would like to be alone for hours at a time and not talk or communicate in any way. Sometimes he would shut himself up in his study and stay in there for the entire day. I was left to my own devices. One thing I did was to collect insects and plant leaves. My father had bought me a dissecting scope and I had numerous books on taxonomy. I would go out to the city’s parks in Manhattan and Brooklyn and search out rare specimens (rare being anything either that I didn’t have or didn’t have very many of). This part of the process that could take the longest. You see, lots of specimens look alike. Because of evolution there had to be diversity in every species so that selection could occur according to environmental pressures. Once you had a good number of specimens, it became more difficult to find added entries. One could go a long time (weeks) and not find anything new. I suppose it’s kind of like fishing (though I had never been fishing in my life—the thought of a poor fish “drowning in the air” makes me ill). When finally I had collected my requisite number, I would take them into. my room and examine at them under the microscope alongside my taxonomy manual. It was intriguing to classify a specimen. This is because no single individual is identical to the drawing in the book. This called for some calculated guessing. One part of the process was to examine the various parts of the organism separately. Sometimes this was a key to assigning it to a taxon. I loved reading about various types of plants and insects and had a number of books on the subject which, along with science fiction, were my mainstays during those years. I never left New York City in my journeys. The MTA took me where I needed to go. I never left the city at all—even when classmates who had recreational housing in Connecticut or New Jersey suggested group outings. I knew my father would not have approved. That’s the way high school went. Then my father died just after graduation. I was already accepted to NYU. My father’s estate plan was well conceived. The house was sold, affairs settled, and then there was a trust fund for me:: a monthly income. Even my schooling had been settled from the life insurance. I would become master of the trust fund when I graduated from college or when I became 21. The two events turned out to almost coincide. During my first year in college I could not accept this freedom that had been thrust upon me. My preventative action was to take very heavy loads of courses so that I would not have time to do anything except work. After the first year (I also took classes in the summer) I had almost finished sophomore requirements. It was then that I met Barbara. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to try and finish college in 2.5 years or whether I should do a second major. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t like social events. I has stopped playing chess. I guess my only entertainment was going to obscure artist-run art galleries in the village when they had a new show. This was not to socialize but to come into contact with authenticity. It was into this vacuum that Barbara first appeared. She was in a mathematics class with me. We had assigned seats and she had a seat just in front of mine. Barbara had a bad habit of forgetting her pen to take notes. “Andrew, can I borrow a pen?” was her frequent request. I usually had two pens on me, but I always made sure I did when I went to math class. I used to buy nice pens—not the cheap 19 cent kind, but regular first quality writing implements. For my own notes I preferred a fountain pen, but for lending I always handed a Cross ballpoint. (Fountain pens become “grooved” to their owners so it would be bad for the pen to be lent to several people.) Soon Barbara was asking me to help her with a problem or two after class. We went to a snack shop and sat down. “Would you like something to drink while we look at those problems?” I asked. She said she didn’t mind so I bought a couple of milkshakes. (I don’t know why I bought milkshakes since I didn’t even like them. Perhaps it was because they were the most expensive things from the fountain and I did not want to appear cheap. ”Cheapness” is the worst thing a student could be (or appear to be) when I was going to NYU.I brought the shakes over to the table and handed Barbara hers and then sat down. That was the problem. My chair stuck and pushed into the table, spilling the milkshake all over Barbara’s problems and her skirt. I felt terrible. “I’m sorry. What an idiotic thing to do!” I was furious with myself. I suppose that everyone sitting in the snack bar could hear me and laughed with amusement. They were probably thinking, “What a jerk. Look at him. He just gets out with a girl and see how he handles it? That kid ought to be locked up securely.” I just knew that this would be the end to everything. But Barbara simply smiled (after she had gotten over the initial shock). I handed her hundreds of napkins—I took apart one of the napkin dispensers and presented her the contents and she thoughtfully used twenty or so declining the rest. “Did I ruin all your homework? “Well, it is written in pencil and I’m afraid the water has gotten to it.” “I feel so bad. I’m just so clumsy.” “Oh, it was not your fault,” she began as she pulled at her black hair which was arranged in curls at that time. “The chair stuck. It could have happened to anyone.” There was some truth to that. But it was also true that it could have been avoided if I had reacted differently when the chair stuck. I could have stopped and alerted her to the problem and then collaborated on a solution. For example, I could have told her to stand up or to move to another table—a whole number of options. But instead I made a fool of myself. “The only sad part of it,” she added, “is that it takes me so long to do this math. I just don’t have the head for it.” “Oh, that’s no problem. I’ll come and help you. We can do it in the library tonight.” That was that. As I think back on it I wonder whether she tricked me into that somehow. She had asked me to help her with a problem. When I had asked her where she wanted to go, she had said the snack shop because it was so close to class. (It was really farther away than the library was from our math classroom. I even wonder, thinking back on it, whether there was some way that she made the chair stick. I don’t know how she might have managed that as the time interval between my getting up and returning was only a few minutes. But if there was a way to have engineered the deed, Barbara would have found it.) Soon, working in the library became a regular thing. And from there it was casual appointments outside of class and studying together. Milkshakes were the gateway drug toward spending more and more time together. One thing led to another so that before the year was out, we were mildly affectionate and I had kissed her. Now I should make it clear that at this time I was not really in the mood for a long term relationship. I was going into my junior year and I didn’t want any commitments which might alter my career goals (which were at that time to live off the interest from the money my father had left me). If I could subside off $ 7,000 a year (and I didn’t see why I couldn’t), then I could avoid getting a job for my entire life. As a junior in college, the prospect of having to go out and get a job seemed like the most horrible fate that could befall a man. Every job that I could think of was full of so much routine and boring tasks. There was so much repetition and submission to superiors and I had had enough of that at school. Why did I need any more? I wanted to live a life which would allow me freely to explore everything and have to do nothing in return. Besides this, there was a feeling in the air around 1964 that there was more to life than serving the military-industrial complex (which was what every job was seen to be in that it represented the economy and that it fostered the forces which were spreading poverty and the de jure segregation in our country). Everything could be reduced to this evil genius and I, as an unthinking student of the times, bought my blue jeans (the new student uniform for conscientious young men of today) and railed in my private discourse against the materialism of society and dreamt along with LBJ of a great Society which would change all the wrongs of that evil establishment that Ike had warned us all about in his farewell address. It never occurred to me that even while I was denouncing materialism, I clung to my possessions and that income which might make me independently (if even on a small scale) wealthy (and with a 4-F draft deferment on top). I lashed out against the industrial establishment in which my father’s money had been made and in which my money stood invested, drawing hefty dividends on which I was presently living. I never saw the contradictions. I never saw the absurdity of little rich kids (as NYU is full of this species) running around trying to look poor with the uniform of blue jeans, Beatle haircuts, and shirts full of patches. The point was to look as if we were part of the downtrodden Proletariat because we were showing our solidarity with our brothers. But then we went back to our dorm or apartment rooms and put on our expensive stereos and ate our large meals with our top grade beer or wine (marijuana had not caught on yet with this set), and think nothing of the contradiction. We felt pure and self-righteous. I know that I did. What a jerk I was. If I was going to give mere lip service to something, I shouldn’t have engaged in such deceitful fantasy that I was really one of the people. I did not really wish to become one of the people or I would have given away my money and joined up. Anyway, there I was amidst a fomenting time for students. It wasn’t as bad as it was a few years later, but considering what had gone on before, it seemed quite avant-garde. Sex was also seen to be the up and coming thing to do. There was so much pressure about it that if a person was going out with another and not doing anything besides simply kissing on the lips, he or she was considered to be passé. No, maybe I should revise that, he would be considered passé. There was an odd feeling about women. They were supposed to engage in sex so that their men might not be passé, but it was important that it was entirely clandestine. They were supposed to engage in sex because they were overcome by the tremendous magnetism of the man. He would power her away from her pure unstained virginity to the base lasciviousness of their animal natures. The women were at the same time not supposed to want sex (thus making the capture all the more satisfying to the ego of the man) and also to be satisfied by the male partner (thus showing him that he could make even the coldest fish warm blooded (a change in species) at his very command). Since woman had to play this double role, it required a tremendous amount of secrecy. For if someone found out that the woman who was his steady had had sexual relations with one or several other lovers, then he might believe that she really enjoyed sex and thus his conquest would not be as awe inspiring. This was why every woman, even if she admitted other lovers, had to state with conviction that her man (that bozo who she was presently with) made her feel like she had never felt before. This new man had brought her the fullness of sensuality that she had not been able to achieve with another. Now at nineteen, beginning my junior year in college, I did not have what you would call an overwhelming sex drive. I understand that this is supposed to be the time in a man’s life when he is at his prime. It may be because I was a late developer, but this was not the case for me. Any sexual impulse that I felt could be easily contained and accommodated sporadically by myself. I was not eager and anxious to hop into bed with someone. However, because of the times, I did feel that this disposition on my part was the evidence of yet another defect in my character. I sometimes tried to tell myself that I was above it all, but I really felt that I was somehow inadequate as a sexual being. Why didn’t I feel like going out on the prowl after young ladies? Why didn’t I want to join the small clandestine orgies that took place on campus once or twice a year? And then there was Barbara. I think that I might have been able to have avoided the usual games if it hadn’t been for her. I was perceived by many to be her “steady”. (I never asked her to be my steady nor did I even want this, except in the way that having a friend showed that you were attractive as a man.) We didn’t go with the “straight” crowd or with the “beat crowd.” We weren’t really in any crowd. This wasn’t because I was a staunch individualist, but because I was considered to be more or less worthless socially. I didn’t have anything interesting to talk about with my peers about music (rock and roll), books (the latest best sellers), or the most important topic: gossip. I didn’t know much about what was happening to whom—nor did I care much except that I would have liked to have had something to share with others. But I didn’t know anything and the rule was that unless you knew something and shared it, that you didn’t get anything in return. Since I didn’t have anything, I didn’t get anything. Barbara wanted to be a part of the “straight” crowd. I didn’t care. (The only difference between the “straight” crowd and the “beat” crowd was that the former dressed better and was even more secretive about what they did privately than the latter. The “beats” were less hypocritical about their sex and drug use, but then the straights were less hypocritical about their real ties to the establishment. I always said that the big difference between the two groups was that one pressed their blue jeans.) I suppose I really did care. I felt more sympathy with the beats. I wanted to be one of the people. But Barbara was just the opposite so we usually did things with her friends rather than mine. This was not imperialism on her part. I really didn’t have anybody who would have wanted to do much with me. This made me wonder at times why Barbara wanted anything to do with me. She was on the outside of the straight group dying to get in and I was nowhere and not doing anything. Perhaps she needed a boyfriend to get in; I don’t know. At any rate we were a rather nonphysical couple as I have said before. This didn’t bother me, because, as I have also said, I didn’t want to get too entangled with a woman so that I would have to marry her. One evening in late November, Barbara asked me if I wanted to get an apartment and move out of the dorms. “Why would I want to do that?” “You could have more freedom,” she said with a smile. We were walking next to each other on the way to the library. Suddenly she took my hand. “You’d be eligible, you know, because next term you will be a senior.” At that time only senior men could get off campus apartments. As I was so full of credits, I would be a senior in midyear. “I like it at the dorm. I don’t have to do any cooking.” I did not like the summers when I would live at my uncle’s while he and his wife took their long vacations. I had to cook and clean, and that whole image made me sick. “Well, I could cook for you sometimes.” “That is not allowed,” I said. The rule for men off campus was that they could not entertain any university women in their rooms. At least in the dorm you could have a girl in your room as long as the door was six inches open and you both had at least one foot on the floor.“ Oh, that rule is never enforced. Who would know?” Barbara surprised me. She had never before seemed to me to be one who wanted to break-the rules. Anyway, what did she care whether I got an apartment off campus or not? “I don’t think I would be interested,” I said. “It would take too much trouble to move.” I felt a strange sensation. We were sitting in the lounge at her dorm (men weren’t allowed in the women’s rooms, but only in the lounge to the dorm. When we wanted to call for our date, we had to check in with a girl stationed downstairs who would have her paged). I got up and walked around a little. There was only one other person in the lounge, a girl in curlers sitting at the piano trying to play a Chopin nocturne and butchering it badly. “Well, you do what you think best, of course.” Barbara was looking out the window. I thought that we had finished with the subject, but then she turned her head back towards mine and said, “Of course, it is cheaper to live off-campus.” This seemed ridiculous to me. How could it be cheaper to live anywhere other than a dorm? Dorms seemed constructed on the principle of economy. The rooms were small and there was very little upkeep. What could be cheaper than eating the slop that they served in the dining hall? I walked a few steps towards to piano player. She had just struck a resounding discord. My mind seemed a little confused as if something were happening which I should know about, but didn’t. I felt that there was a subtext to this conversation which I wasn’t a party to. This gave me the feeling that I was at a disadvantage. I knew even then (though if you had asked me, I couldn’t have articulated it) that Barbara was a woman whose very essence was scheming. What did she have in mind for me? If I could have asked the question then, I probably could have told you that she wanted me to take an apartment offcampus, but why? “Cheaper?” I responded. “Of course.” She reached for my hand and guided me back to the sofa. “The only advantage to living on campus is that it qualifies you for financial aid. Room and board cost a good 15 per cent more on campus than off. For one thing, you don’t buy all that unnecessary food that they charge you for at the food service. Look, you don’t eat all that much at meals so you are bound to subsidizing those who do.” Barbara was an economics major with a specialization in the stock market. Who was I to argue with someone like her? “And the rooms are relatively the same price even though you get a much higher quality. You see, the college does not have to meet the same standards as private housing. So the college can stick you in a decrepit lodging because it is the only supplier in the marketplace. They have no competition. Why do you think that so many seniors live off campus?” The truth was that not very many did. But Barbara had a way with rhetoric that was convincing, even when she was factually wrong. I searched for some way to avoid her domineering will. “But how do you know it would be any more pleasant?” This retort did not warrant a reply from her. She merely lifted one eyebrow. I continued, “Perhaps I’ll have to get financial aid.” “Don’tpull myleg, Andrew.” She was staringintenselyatme now. “Well, I might have to. You never know.” “Andrew, I know better than that.” She did? How? I had never talked about my financial situation with her or anyone except the man who ran my trust. Barbara had told me of her own family situation. Her dad was middle class and struggling to put her through college. But after all, she was an economics major with an emphasis in the stock market. Maybe she had x-ray vision? “I worked in the dean’s office during my freshman year, Andrew, and we often had access to the confidential files of various students in the normal course of our work. I have firsthand knowledge that you would never have to go on financial aid.” She had done it: she caught me in a contradiction. I hadn’t actually said that I needed financial aid, but the implication was there. Now I was putty in her hands. She added (to cinch the deal), “You know, you’re always complaining about the noise in the dorms. Well, you won’t have to put up with that if you change to an apartment.” And so the next day I signed up for an apartment effective net term. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but perhaps it was that girl on the piano who was driving me nuts and impairing my better judgment. I did not like the fact that Barbara had known about my financial situation for so long and had not mentioned this to me. Why had she kept it a secret? Maybe the subject just didn’t come up, or perhaps there was some other reason? I wouldn’t have known about this at the time, but student workers are never allowed to look into the confidential files of other students at NYU or anywhere else. She must have looked into my folder on the sly. But what motive could she have had? Had she looked into other folders? It is possible that she didn’t look into the folder at all, but merely on the contributions’ list. This is a list that the college keeps to solicit funds from parents over and above tuition. They usually have two categories: “loaded” and “really loaded”. My name might have been on that first list since my father was dead and I had comfortable means. She might have then made the inference. What I didn’t want to consider (even now) was the possibility that Barbara, little Barbara, sweet Barbra, who came from a family which was financially struggling, might have culled the list in order to find out which boys in the school came from wealthy families. Then she could try and meet those with whom she shared a class. Perhaps she tried to get a peek at their confidential files in order to confirm the fundraising sheet’s categorizations. She might have intended to meet me only so that she could catch me and get her hands on my money. I said that I don’t like to consider this possibility because it makes me cringe at my gullibility. Could I have been such a schmuck? At any rate, I moved in to that apartment. It was a small studio apartment with cooking equipment and a refrigerator built in, but it served my needs. The bed was a Murphy which came down from the wall. The place was also furnished with a couch, two chairs, a table, and a lamp. It was a step up from the dorm, but it was not as nice as Barbara had pitched. There was one window in the room which looked over the alley between buildings. In the alley there was a large light that was always on in the night. The funny thing about this light was that it was not held securely. Consequently, whenever there was any wind (which was most nights) the light would swing back and forth. The first week or so I was entranced by the light’s movements. It gave a certain syncopation to the evening. I took to leaving my given light off so I could contemplate the patterns. Even when I pulled down the shade to the window, the light would still shine through the cracks and play its tricks. This was one thing that I both liked and disliked about the apartment. I could feel alone but at the same time be conscious of the outside world. When I was a boy (after my mother had died) there were times when I went into the closet in my room and shut the door. The only light I saw was the ¾ inch gap at the bottom of the door. That became a tube of light. As my eyes would grow accustomed to the darkness, that tube of light became even more exotic to me: a Dan Flavin minimalist display. I suppose I could have taped newspapers or cardboard to the whole blind in order to block out all the light, but then my room in the daytime would seem like a prison. So I decided to think about my adolescent closet when my starry shade began to annoy me. The other point of nuisance was the noisy landlord’s cat which was out each night and had a habit of climbing onto garbage cans. The problem was that sometimes the cans would tip over with a resounding crash followed by angry cat screeching. The apartment was supposed to be quieter than a dorm, but I think that the cat and the lighted room more than made up for stereos and parties. It was only two weeks before Barbara came again to see the apartment. She had helped me move in, but she had not been back. I had only taken her to see my dorm room twice. I didn’t like the pressure of being alone with her in a private space. On this occasion we first went out to a movie together and then had a coffee while we talked about our visions of the future. I told her about my plans to travel and live as I could. “I want to get married or become a stock broker,” she confided. “Why don’t you do both?” I suggested. “It’s not that easy. The financial world is not feminine-friendly. They say women aren’t aggressive enough for the job.” I thought silently that such a criticism certainly didn’t apply to her. We finished our coffee and Barbara suggested we travel to my studio apartment. I was happy that we stopped talking about the future. As we walked I picked up a small stone and pointed to a mailbox as my target. The stone fell short and wide of the mark. “And what about you, Andrew? Do you plan to get married some day?” “Perhaps,” I said in a lilting voice. I picked up another stone and threw it. It missed and almost hit a car window. I decided to stop. “My aim is pretty bad this evening. Perhaps we should call it a night.” “Oh, come on, Andrew, it is only nine o’clock. You promised to take me to your place.” “Do you want an ice cream cone?’ “Okay, but only if we have it at your place.” “But I don’t have any ice cream.” I didn’t like the idea of her coming into my private domain. That was one thing that I liked about an apartment: I could be all alone. Back in the dorm my roommate had been ideal for me because he was withdrawn like I was and didn’t bother me. But it was for better not to have a roommate at all to get in the way. “We’ll find something. “ Barbara was optimistic. We were now within a block. When we got inside she walked over to my cupboards and looked through them. “Let’s have some of that house warming gift I gave you over a little toast.” The prospect didn’t seem all that bright to me. I had not touched the potted meat nor the wine. I had not had anything particular to celebrate. But Barbara did not read my subtle cues. She made herself busy and in short order came up with the refreshment. We drank the wine and had the toast with the potted meat on top. To be perfectly truthful, it tasted better than I expected. Barbara had most of the toast and gave me most of the wine. I thought that we would only be drinking a glass, but before I knew it we had finished the bottle! I was very contented and looked over at Barbara. In the dim light of the apartment she was very alluring. I felt an overwhelming desire to kiss her, so I did. The kiss had more intensity than our normal fare. I still remember being somewhat confused by everything, except that I was quite animated, and I stopped questioning things. Before I knew it my hand was touching her breast through her shirt and bra. To this day I don’t remember doing that. But I must have done it, because I was touching skin and that is a feeling hard to feign—unless Barbara had placed my hand there. I didn’t need any more encouragement than this. Barbara was letting me touch her without resistance. I kept wondering why she didn’t move my hands away. I must be overcoming her with passion for me. I started fumbling about. I did not know what I was doing. “Get the light,” she whispered. I obeyed. * * * It was about four o’clock when Barbara woke me. We were lying in the Murphy bed. I had a terrific headache. I remembered the hours before when she had almost guided me through the motions. It surprised me how much there was to learn about an action that I had always thought came naturally somehow. The man is supposed to take the lead, but in dim light and no roadmap, it was more daunting than I had dreamed. But she made everything work out fine. I did not consider that this skill might have been acquired from previous experience. I was a virgin and just assumed that she was. I would have been too embarrassed to ask. (I asked her once whether she had been a virgin just before I left for Europe and she had said, “yes,” but then, knowing Barbara, what else would she have said? With Barbara, truth telling meant doing whatever was convenient.) It was an understatement to say I was confused. Here it was very early in the morning—even for me, an early riser. I wanted very much to talk to Barbara about what had just happened and I wanted to get some aspirin for my headache. Barbara had awoken me, but she now seemed to be in some sort of alternate universe. What was she thinking about? Was it me? Was it what we had just done? Then it occurred to me that I didn’t know what we had just done. I had no intuitions on this one. I was very confused. Once again, Barbara brought clarity to the situation. “We’ve got to get me back to my room. They sometimes check who’s not there in the morning. I know that it’s very sporadic, but I cannot take that chance.” “Of course,” I chimed in. It was then that I realized that I could have just gotten Barbara into a whole lot of trouble. What had I done to her? Could she be expelled for lascivious behavior? Was this moral turpitude? The time for speculation was over. It was time to act. I started moving quickly, though I did not have the plan in mind. I should have asked Barbara. Barbara also seemed to be a little nervous as she got out of bed and began dressing. This arrested me. I wanted to watch her dress. The sight of a naked woman was unknown to me. I was frozen in awe. Just then, the cat tipped over a garbage can in the alley, the wind picked up and the lamp began to sway. This was getting surreal. For a moment I took the oscillating light to be a police car patrolling the alley. Barbara picked up on my agitation. But she was not deterred in the execution of her task. At any rate she was returned safely. I went back to my room and awaited the morning as I watched the dying pattern made by the swinging beam of light across the floor. Chapter Seven THE SEXUAL EPISODES between Barbara and me were infrequent at first, but increased as the school year drew to an end. Now more than ever, she would play on my guilt over despoiling her. She exacted promises of marriage from me over and over. I wanted to have sex with her but I wasn’t sure that she was really the girl that I wanted to marry. Why had I allowed our relationship to come to this? I had just wanted a casual friendship and now I would have to marry her. I knew this would have to be since I believed in responsibility. I could not risk ruining another’s life just to satisfy my own animal lusts. And so I was in a difficult situation. I wanted to be free to pursue the sort of life that I had planned for myself, but then I had this responsibility issue that I had created by my unforced actions. When I thought about Barbara I felt a certain tenderness for her, but I suppose that the thing I liked best about her was our newly discovered physical relationship. I reasoned to myself that many married couples had lots of trouble with sex and that we had none. It might not be a bad bet to marry someone who you know will be compatible in bed. All of this made little impression on me. The only argument which carried any real weight was that I had a responsibility I owed to her. A responsibility was a morally sacred burden which must be accepted and carried out. It was this sense of duty that gave Barbara further power over me. She knew that she had me. She was just as good as Mrs. Andrew Viam and she used this knowledge to its full effect. She became quite concerned when I explained that I was going to Britain for graduate studies until she graduated from college. She just expected me to hang around for her. But I had to go. I do not know if it was an unconscious desire to be rid of her (surely this was not unconscious—I felt it and recognized the emotion), but I told myself that when the time came I would marry her. She put up quite a battle with me, using all the guilt and strings she had attached to try and get me to change my mind, but for the last time in our relationship I stood up for something and won: I went to Cambridge while she completed her B.A. in New York. I think she gave up, really, deciding that if she pressed any harder she might lose, me for good. A man has a better bargaining position when he is single over such things than when he is married. I went to Cambridge and in a year and a half came back, married Barbara, took her to Cambridge, and finished my studies. It was in Cambridge that Barbara finally decided that she could fulfil her dream of being a wife and a stock broker. At first she engaged in phantom investing. She pretended as if she were putting money into stocks and charted them in a ledger she bought at Heffers Bookshop. After a year of this, she showed me the accounts as proof that she knew her stuff. Now all she needed was some capital to invest. Guess where that was supposed to come from? “No. I don’t want to touch father’s legacy. He made very exact plans for that money. I don’t want to fool with it. We get a predicable 5 per cent per year.” Barbara pouted. The question turned to whether I trusted her enough and whether I thought that she was capable of handling the money. Now that she was my wife, she used all the powers at her disposal to win this war with me. If I didn’t, then it showed that I was a bad husband. I was comfortable on $ 7,000 a year. She wanted more. I thought that you should adjust your desires to meet your income. She thought that desires were a given and that more income was necessary to satisfy a certain perceived standard of living for someone of our class. I didn’t know what class that was. She was middle class and I was classless since I was a loner. “It is criminal to let all that money sit earning a paltry 5% interest in those ultra-conservative stocks your broker has chosen. If you look at my practice ledger I was making 10 per cent—that’s double. If I choose a higher risk plateau, I could move that up to 17 per cent easy. Then we’d have $ 14,000 in addition to your salary as a college professor.” “But I don’t want to be a college professor.” “Pooh. You’ve got to earn a living somehow.” “What about that $ 14,000 you just mentioned.” “$ 14,000 is not a living.” “90 per cent of people in the United States earn less than that.” “Why not shoot for the top? You set your standards too low. You’ll never amount to anything with that attitude. “ “Barbara, I want to travel; I want see the world. “ “We’re traveling now. We’re living in Cambridge. YOU travelled even before you married. It’s time you settled down, Andrew Viam. You’re a married man now. Act like one.” And so when I finished we moved back to the States. I get a job at Boston College and later went to Chicago University. Barbara invested our money in stocks she thought would bring us a better income. Her technique was faulty and she lost half of the money through poor investments. I suggested that we sink the rest of my father’s legacy into a condominium in Hyde Park and a car. That took care of that. Barbara got an outside job at a brokerage firm that had upside potential. We also decided (at Barbara’s suggestion) that we would establish separate bank accounts. It was about this time that we began constructing various barriers around those parts of our personalities that we could not tolerate in the other. So it was that we went on for four years—happy, I thought, but apparently that was not so. We both had our jobs. Mine was rather repetitive: I taught five different classes over and over and over again. I went to the library on four designated work periods depending upon the day. Barbara was rising up in her job and was soon making more than I did. She showed signs that I should recognize that and render proper fealty. She was very jealous of her bank account. I suppose her vision of our life together changed drastically when she went through my father’s legacy. Perhaps she did check up on my financial situation. Perhaps her vision of a better life had depended upon her parlaying that nest egg into something considerable. And if that was the measure of success and happiness, then she was deeply unhappy now. It was another stage of our drifting apart. * * * We finally arrived at the rather large state park. You had a choice of either driving on a dirt road to some designated camp sites with stakes driven in the ground and the numbers of the sites gouged out and painted with white paint. The second choice was a backpacking option where you walked on various trails and stopped where your fancy dictated. Anthea chose the latter. “Are you kidding?” I asked. “Why not take the easy route and drive to your campsite?” “Suit yourself, Andrew. But if you want to sleep in my tent tonight, you’re going on a hike. That’s real camping.” My only question is where to park our car so it isn’t vandalized.” She looked around and chose a spot behind some tall elm trees and next to some park ranger vehicles. And then we were off. Now, it should never be said that I dislike walking. I walked all the time in Hyde Park (since Barbara took our car to work). But I generally carried only a couple of books and a pad of paper for notes. This was quite different from a heavy backpack and the water we would be using. (At the designated campsites they had potable water right on the spot, but for hikers you had to carry in your own.) Water is very heavy. Anthea was in excellent shape for hiking. She kept up a steady pace. I struggled to keep up. Sometimes I would stop and she would scold me to keep up. The straps of my rucksack cut into my shoulders so that they became a sheet of pain. And then I fell down. I tripped on a tree root on the path. I had no desire to get up. But Anthea came back for me. “Get up you lazy head. Let’s see what you are made of.” I wanted to say “Jello,” but speaking the word was too much of an effort. “You’ve got to keep going until we get there.” “How do we know when we’re there?” I moaned. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you.” And so we went on further. I was in so much pain that I became very dizzy. There were three or four more roots that I tripped over but I managed to keep my balance this time. And still we walked and walked and walked. I tried to hypnotize myself on her calf muscles. They were real and they weren’t cramping like mine were. It was almost dark when Anthea told me that we had come to the place. Had I energy I would have inquired how it was any different from a half-dozen spots that were miles back. I merely fell into a heap. I wanted to go to sleep right then, but Anthea did not permit me. Instead, she took off my pack and told me to clear some brush for our campsite while she went to gather some firewood. I began clearing brush when I was overcome with fatigue and went to sleep. I don’t know how long I was asleep (I had long since stopped looking at my watch), but when Anthea awoke me it was dark. I felt discomfort in my left leg and found numerous cockle burrs on my pants at the calf. I was laying on them. The path that we had taken was badly overgrown. I didn’t know how Anthea had been able to follow it. Anthea had made a fire and was cooking something. “Now we put up the tent,” she said. “We’ve got to keep the tent away from the fire. The water-proofing they use on them makes them into instant infernos if they come into contact with a flame.” I shuddered and made a mental note: keep tents and fire apart or it will be Fourth of July. I felt much better and obeyed her command. We got the tent up in no time. Then we threw down the ground cloth and our double-sized air mattress. “The ground is too hard to screw on,” Anthea had said about the purchase. We zippered up our sleeping bags together and had some coffee. “Dinner’s almost ready, why don’t you get some of that grass out of my pack and we’ll have a few tokes.” “You brought marijuana?” I asked in surprise. I don’t know why I was surprised. So many young people used the stuff that I ceased to wonder when I discovered some acquaintance was a user. “I don’t indulge.” “You what? Come on, Andrew, and be a good boy.” “No, Anthea. I won’t be bullied about this.” “But what’s the matter? Afraid your hair will fall out? Look, grass is a harmless herb.” “Goes along with your vegetarian philosophy, eh?” I thought that she was a little surprised at my stand, but there are things that a person must believe in. It was dark now and the only vision I had of Anthea was via fire light. I was sitting on a rock that she had moved close to the fire for that express purpose. She was across the fire sitting seven or eight feet away. The shadows made her seem like a different person.They danceda mysteriousrhythmacrosshervisage. “I don’t see why you don’t want any. It will make our sex more intense.” There was an irritation in her voice, but she saw that I was not giving in on this. “I don’t use it because it is against the law.” “Against the law! That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Who obeys the law? We all break the law all the time. If it isn’t speeding in our car, it’s cheating on our income taxes or jay walking. Don’t give me that crap about obeying the law.” She rattled these off as if she were saying her catechism. She wasn’t particularly livid, though her words had a sharpness that seemed to portray something that was clear to her but was opaque to me. Her manner of delivery, as I have said, was mechanical. Her face seemed somewhat passive, and yet there was that edge. Was this a remnant of some emotion which had ceased to be associated with the words that had been repeated so many times? Was there really an underlying emotion to which this acrimonious undertone was projecting? “I know that certain things you say are true. We don’t all obey the law, but that does not speak to what we ought.to do. I know that I have driven my car over the speed limit. But that does not mean I was right to do so. I do not habitually flaunt the law.” This little conversation was giving me a second wind. We philosophers like a verbal confrontation. It’s mother’s milk to us. “But what if it is a stupid law? You don’t have to obey stupid laws.” “I don’t see how the stupidity of the law has any bearing on whether we should obey it. In Seattle there is still a law that requires men to remove their hats indoors. If I were in Seattle and I was aware of this law, I would feel under an obligation to obey it.” “But why? I can tell what is good and bad without any law telling me what to do. The law can’t legislate morality. That’s what the marijuana laws are doing. It’s just like Prohibition.” “You’re right. It is just like Prohibition. It is a prohibition against an intoxicating drug. But then, I believe the government has the authority to prohibit alcohol if it wanted to.” “But Prohibition was a big failure. That shows that the law was dead wrong. And today millions are disobeying the marijuana laws in just the same way. This shows that the marijuana laws are also dead wrong.” She was no longer reciting rote questions and answers. She was sitting up on her knees and gesturing animatedly. I had not changed my position on the rock. I pulled up my knees to my chest to relieve the pressure on my lower back. “So you believe that millions who disobey the drug laws render those laws invalid?” “Sure, it’s a democracy isn’t it?” Anthea stood up. “Yes, it is. We have three branches of government and it is the legislative branch which is the sovereign that makes all laws subject to our written Constitution.” “So you agree with me.” “Well, sort of. I agree we, in the United States, live in a federal democracy. Where we disagree is who makes the laws. I’m saying that only Congress and the State Legislatures have the right to make laws. You’re saying that a few million pot users can stipulate the law for all 231 million Americans. That is inaccurate and even if it weren’t, you’d have minority rule.” “What I wanted to say was that it was up to each person to think about the laws and then only obey the good laws.” “So everyone picks and chooses the laws to obey.” “Now you’ve got it,” Anthea looked at me as if I were a moron. “That would mean that personal values trump civil law. So that if I had a personal value about killing blond haired women, then I ought to be able to indulge my personal inclination.” “That’s a stupid case. Of course murder is always wrong.” “So murder is different from smoking pot. It’s all right for people to disobey the pot laws but not for them to disobey the murder laws. All murderers ought to be punished.” She rolled her eyes. The flickering light of the fire seemed to accentuate her irritation over my simple-minded questioning. “Of course they should. And they should throw away the key.” “But on what principle? You said earlier that each of us must decide what laws are right and just for ourselves. The law shouldn’t legislate morality. Those were your very words, don’t you remember?’’ She didn’t answer. “If killing is a moral issue, and I can hardly think of anything which is more of a moral issue, then the law has no right to tell me whether I should murder or not. By your own admission I may choose to ignore those laws and be perfectly justified in doing so. And the society should not punish people who do what they think is right. So if I think killing a particular person is the proper thing to do, then society should not punish me.” “But you can’t equate murder with smoking grass.” “You’re right. They are different sorts of cases. Smoking marijuana is a recreational activity that is victimless—unless you operate a car while stoned. I see the right to personal recreation to be a limited right. So if the government wants to say it’s okay to drink alcohol or to smoke tobacco—even if alcohol and tobacco create a greater health risk, it is within the purview of the government to do so. Now it would be different if there were a single drug for cancer treatment and the government said I couldn’t take it to save my life. That would be about the right to life and would be similar to the murder case.” I could tell that this argument was not to her liking. She turned her face away from the fire for a bit. I just sat there and wondered what she was going to do. It was a little difficult for her to go back to the car particularly over a trail that we could barely follow in the light. Finally she said, “Where do we draw the line? You say it’s okay for the government to tell me whether or not I can smoke tobacco or whether or not I can smoke grass, but it cannot take a cancer drug from me. And that’s because I’m not really harmed by losing the ability to toke a joint, but I’ll die without the cancer drug.” Anthea had regained her focused look. “Yes.” “I agree to that. But I still think that the government is wrong in telling me I can’t smoke pot. What’s the harm?” She was genuinely asking me a question now. I sensed somehow an authenticity in her voice which had not previously been there. “Just that it is against the law.” “But who does that harm?” “You just admitted that the murderer should be locked up and made to obey the laws. And I suppose that there are quite a few others who you would agree ought to be locked up and made to obey the laws, such as the rapist, robber, embezzler and so on. Correct?” She didn’t respond, but looked at me with open eyes staring intensely. “Well, the only reason the government has to put them on trial is that they have broken laws that have been established by that government. Presumably the legislative branch passes laws which it thinks are right and just or at least in the best interests of its citizens. Now say that there is a silly law which says that men may not wear hats inside. It also is a law. It may deal with a trivial and stupid aspect of behavior, but it is still a law. As a law it must be obeyed in the same way as the murder laws are obeyed. This is because there is no way to create individual exceptions to the law without tearing down the whole idea of laws in the first place. Laws don’t work unless they apply to everybody equally. And laws don’t work unless people try to follow all of them. Whenever we break a law (especially when we aren’t caught and punished) we weaken the fabric of law in general and undermine the government.” “But how can my smoking a little grass bring down the government?” “It’s accumulative. One person sees another doing something and getting away with it and so he tries to get away with it. This continues until there is widespread non-compliance with the law. When this happens, the ability other laws to protect people is diminished.” “You’re saying that I’m hurting the law by smoking grass?” “Yes. You’re indirectly undermining all laws by disobeying even a silly law.” Anthea didn’t like our conversation. We ate our entire dinner in silence. She probably thought that I was a prude, but I didn’t care. There were some principles that I held to be important and morality was one of them. I admired the way that Anthea could act on her own and not care about what others thought. No, that wasn’t it. What I found fascinating was her ability to tune other people out and not feel inextricably tied to them; that she put loyalty to herself first. This entailed a degree of selfishness, of course, but I was attracted to a certain sort of selfishness because it showed that she knew and accepted herself. I, on the other hand, was deficient in that area. Would that I had more of Anthea within me. Barbara manipulated me any way she wanted to. Barbara knew it and made me pay for my flaw. * * * After dinner I cleaned up the dishes and thought that it would be nice to take a little swim. We were only a hundred yards or so from a little lake. It was a beautiful night (a little nippy, but still tolerable for a swim). We were isolated. There were no other human souls within sight or sound. So I made for the water. It was not the kind of water that one could get used to slowly. I knew that I had to either jump in or sit on the bank and throw pebbles. I opted for the former alternative. So with firm resolve I ran into the water and hurled myself into the cold depths. It was unbelievably cold. This frigid hydro mass engulfed me and instantly I was gasping for air. It was as if my involuntary muscles had gotten out of control. I had to slow down my breathing, so I began doing some sidestrokes. The action of moving my muscles helped get my breathing under control. I moved through the water for a few minutes and then got out. I had not completely gotten under control in the water, but considering my gasping state when I first entered, my feeling at exit was one of triumph. I felt as if I had really accomplished something. As I climbed back onto the bank I felt the mud slide through my toes. I was more tired than I realized. My little nap and my conversation with Anthea had fooled me into thinking that I was really more awake and strong than I was. It was a struggle to put my clothes back on. The cool air made my wet skin shiver, and the hundred yards back to our camp seemed three times as long. When I returned, Anthea was sitting on my rock staring into the fire. She had a blank expression. I attributed it to the marijuana she had smoked. “I’m pretty tired,” I said. “I think I’ll be going to bed.” Anthea didn’t answer. I figured that she was still pretty mad about our conversation. I stripped down to my underwear and got into the double sleeping bag. It’s a lucky thing that we zipped these two together before the argument, I thought. It wasn’t long before I was sound asleep. There is nothing more pleasant than being tired to your every fiber and then settling down into a comfortable bed (and the sleeping bag with the air mattress was very comfortable) and falling to sleep quickly. There is something very satisfying about the entire process. This brief pleasure was soon interrupted by Anthea as she entered the sleeping bag and preceded to wake me up. “Andrew,” she shook my shoulder. “W-w-what?” I managed in a half-awake tone that betrayed my desire to go back to the other side. “Andrew, wake up.” “What is it?” I refused to open my eyes or to remove my mind from its sleeping mind-set. This way I would have no delay in getting back to sleep. “How was the water?” “What?” No other question could have perplexed me more. I was semipreparedforher torant about howunfair Iwasor what a rotten time she was having with me or some such prattle. I was prepared for something along those lines and could have put off such answers and fallen back to sleep without missing a blink, but this question was so out of character for Anthea (or at least my understanding of her character) that it caused me to displace, at least momentarily, my somnolent attitude. “The water. You went swimming. I could hear you splash in.” “Oh yeah. The water. Very nice.” I was ready to nod again. “Do you want to go swimming now?” “I want to sleep.” My eyes wanted to close. The lids felt weighted. Anthea put her hands on each of my shoulders and turned me around so that my body was on its side and facing her. Then she released the hand on the lower shoulder and brought it to my face and stroked it gently. This had more of an effect than her trying to jar me awake. “I know you’re tired, but the moon will be going down soon. If we are going to swim together tonight, it will have to be now.” Swim tonight together—I could feel myself getting more and more awake again. I could not help it. It was the force of her argument. One could not argue and hope to maintain that delicate equilibrium between this world and the realm of Hypnos. I wanted so much to return to that quiet and restful state and yet all her questions were making such a journey impossible. I felt the accessibility of that other world fade away despite my efforts to embrace its quiet unconsciousness. “Anthea-a-a,” I said in a final effort to regain that last state of peace. I intended for there to be an edge to my voice, but because I was concentrating on recovering my cherished Hypnos, I could not judge whether intention matched execution. She didn’t respond but grabbed my shoulders and gave them a tug. The other realm was gone. I made the final submission; I opened my eyes. There in front of me was Anthea. Her short hair was untidy. Our fire was dying down and so it was difficult to really catch the expression on her face, but it seemed to be one of great concern. I had never seen her so earnest (it was similar but not identical to the expression she had had on her face in the Marc Plaza when the goon show came to visit). For some reason she really felt it was important for us to go swimming. And of course, in accord with our respective personalities, she put her own needs above mine and I put mine out of mind. Here was someone who needed my help. What could I do? We hurried down to the lake (or Anthea was hurrying and pulling me along with her). It had gotten colder. The moon was about to set. I must have been asleep for hours. Anthea quickly and effortlessly stripped off her clothes and then helped me as I fumbled for my shorts. I could not help admiring her beautiful body as it was presented to me in yet another light. There is a cool dull glow that moonlight gives (especially when reflected off of water). Anthea’s skin took on a different hue. This gave a different presentation of her geography. Her eyes seemed to stand out and sparkle. I had the feeling as we stood and looked at each other naked in the moonlight that she was somehow genuine with me for the first time. She had somehow lost her swagger and was now before me with as few pretentions as she could have at that moment. I stretched out my arm and touched her shoulder. I was alive with a swelling passion, but I remained still. I let my hand slide down her smooth skin. Then we were in the water. It seemed even colder than before. Both of us splashed around a bit, but we didn’t really engage in swimming. It was merely water-play. But vigor of the cold caused us both to exit before very long. I was lost in the mystery of it all. Our love making was amazing. There were no politics. There was no you or I— only us. Then we ran back to camp. My body was no longer sore from our hiking. It was time to slow down to the pace of our environment—our cenacle of solitude with nary another human about. It was just Anthea and me as we scrambled into our double zipped sleeping bag. I was totally in that moment. No past or future—only the noise of the insects and the chill of the June night air. I wanted that moment to stretch out and hold me still. But nothing lasts forever. My eyelids began getting heavier. As I breathed, each movement of my chest brought me closer to yet another dreamland. Soon the urge to go to sleep returned. Even as I lay down I felt myself quickly drifting away. But just as I was reaching a transition state, Anthea nudged me just as before. “Andrew.” “What?” I was not in the mood to be disturbed again. “I want to talk.” “Not now.” “Andrew.” “We’ll talk in the morning.” I rolled over, expecting to go right to sleep, but I kept waiting for Anthea to lay down; she was half sitting being propped up by her elbow. I knew that she was thinking. She wanted to talk to me, but I wanted to go to sleep. Surely there was a time for everything. Still I couldn’t relax very well thinking about her brooding. I don’t know how long she stayed awake since I did manage to fall asleep within the hanging conversation. We had had a long day, so when I awoke I anxiously looked at my watch. It said one o’clock, but then I also noticed that it wasn’t running. I had forgotten to wind it. Anthea didn’t have a watch, so we were without time. Now I am usually the kind of guy who never pops out of bed in the morning to scurry toward his many tasks that await him. This morning was no different. I decided just to lie in bed and think. It was an interesting perspective, looking up through the walls of a small green tent. The birds were out (some of them were probably mating and establishing territories). Everything seemed alive to me. There were no blockbuster books that I had to read or projects I had to get done. For once I felt free. It was a feeling that I hadn’t experienced since my Cambridge days. I remember vividly getting off the plane at Heathrow. I was going to be a student at one of the best universities in the world. I was thrilled at the prospective academic stimulation. I might get to hear all the great names in philosophy (I had not yet specialized in philosophy of science). The world was all before me and I looked not for a place of rest. Barbara and the rest were all behind me. I hadn’t given them a single thought since I got on the plane. I felt that that great mechanical monster was taking me away from the cares and obligations of marriage into that world that I had planned on from the start. I felt free even though I knew I was not. The plane pulled up at the appropriate spot on the runway and we all got out. It had been a redeye flight and everyone was tired (or at least they all looked tired). I was no exception. I had a single bag with another case, a trunk, coming in the baggage compartment. Then there was waiting. We waited to get the luggage (my trunk was not there). Then we waited to go through customs. Finally we were out. But what was I then to do? I was out; free to do whatever I pleased, but how to do it? I didn’t know where to go. I changed some money at the airport (getting a terrible rate of exchange) and asked a fellow how one got to London. He told me which busses to take and how much it would cost and how long it would take. I decided to spend a night at an airport motel until my trunk arrived. Checking a directory located in the air terminal, I hopped onto a courtesy van run by the hotel and in ten minutes was checking in. The room looked just as any motel room would look in America. I lay on the bed and put on the television. It was a horrid game show. The quality of daytime television in Britain was definitely lower than it was in the U.S. (and that’s pretty bad). I quickly fell asleep for twenty hours. I could not believe it when I awoke. It hadn’t been a sound sleep but a fitful one punctuated by the television, which woke me up (until I finally turned it off), and numerous trips to the toilet. I finally got up and felt like I had been hit in the head with a siege hammer. I paid my bill and took the van back to the airport. My trunk had still not arrived. I was a little upset. But it seemed the more I tried to let them know that I was upset, the more I was ignored. I believe that I was learning the first lesson in English customer relations. Whereas in America the customer is “always right” and businesses go out of their way to honor even dubious claims, in Britain it is not that way at all. One’s claims are only occasionally honored and only then when the customer can prove that it was the store’s fault. “Let the buyer beware” is the catch phrase. However, in this case I was completely in the right. I had every reason to expect that my case would come when expected. This was not an unreasonable demand on my part. I left after getting a promise that they would“ look intoit”. This time I was upset. I just started walking when I suddenly realized that I didn’t know where I was going. I started hitch hiking. I had always heard about people hitch hiking in Europe, so why not here? It was not long before a delivery man stopped for me and took me into central London. He dropped me off near Grosvenor Square. He said that this was a good place for a “Yank.” (I found out later that this remark probably referred to the U.S. embassy which is located there). I hailed a cab and asked him to take me to a rooming house near the University. We went through a maze of streets and I was finally dropped off at Gower Street. “There’s lots of places ‘round here, mate,” he said as I paid him my last crown. I went into the first place I saw. It was right next to the Goodge Street Underground Station. It was a cheap, mildly dirty place, and a lot different from the motel I had stayed at near the airport. For one thing, the bed was fixed on a slant so that one was always sleeping uphill or downhill (depending which end you set your pillow). There was a sink in the room which only ran cold water and there was no heat unless you fed sixpence into a gas heater near the end of the room. It was January and plenty cold. The toilet was at the end of the hall. There were only two toilets for all the lodgers—two floors with three rooms on each floor. The toilet was a dark and musty place which didn’t exactly appeal to my sterile American sensibilities. The morning breakfast was greasy sausage, eggs cooked in lots of butter, a fried tomato, and six slices of bread served in a metal stand. You were suppose cover the toast in butter and marmalade, but I passed on that one. I headed to a local bank and exchanged some more traveler’s checks even though I wanted to go to sleep again. On the way back from the bank I happened into Dillon’s (a prominent bookstore near University College London). I was amazed at how inexpensive the books were. They were 40% less than the same titles sold in America. I bought a couple of novels and went back to my room for some reading. It wasn’t long before I had fallen asleep. I awoke around nine that evening with a great hunger. I hiked over to Southampton and found an inexpensive restaurant. (I knew it to be inexpensive by reading the menu posted outside the establishment—at least they did one thing like New York). It was a Greek place, and I had a filling meal for four shillings, eight. My meal put me in better spirits about my situation. I even felt like doing some exploring. I bought a plan of the city and walked downtown and gambled a little in the penny arcades in Soho. I broke even on the night and was feeling exhilarated at my new found freedom. I did not think about it at the time, but at that very instant I so wanted those moments to last forever. The next morning at breakfast (included in the price of the room) I saw the other inhabitants of the smelly hole in which I was living. They were mostly Africans and Asians and had markedly different table manners. I got into a conversation with one and found out a little about the University area. They told me to go to the British Museum. That sounded like a good idea. Karl Marx studied there. I enjoyed my chat with the other foreign students. I felt a compelling sense of satisfaction over my situation and this spread to all that I did. The smell of the rooming house got more tolerable and I finally got my trunk. I had learned my way around the city and in only two weeks felt ready to travel to Cambridge. I was doing some informal study at first so it made no difference (to some extent) when I arrived. But when I did arrive the first thing I noticed was that it was much colder than London, even though it was only seventy-five minutes away by train from King’s Cross. I wasted no time finding a temporary place to stay until I should be able to hunt around for something permanent. I wanted to settle in and start. I was excited by Cambridge in a different way than I had been excited by London. The entire set-up was different. The number of cultural centers was much different and the town as a whole seemed less of a hodge-podge than London. I had only been in Cambridge a month (I already had a cold from the lack of central heating) when I met Ronnie. Ronnie was in philosophy of logic and was working on his thesis. We hit it off from the first. It was Ronnie who took me to his favorite pubs and eating houses. It was Ronnie who took me to various societies and lectures, and it was Ronnie who offered to share his “digs” with me. I accepted. Ronnie was the perfect friend for me. He was introspective and sensitive and yet fiercely independent and mildly disinterested. He was not the type of person who had ulterior motives for anything. Ronnie would answer various questions I had about the ways and customs of Cambridge (which in some respects is a country unto itself, totally distinct from other “countries” such as Oxford). There is a coldness about Cambridge in the scholars which matches the climate of the area perfectly. Each person (depending on his place in the dominance hierarchy) had a prescribed mode of social behavior which began with one’s salutation (for example, never ask someone higher up on the scale how he or she is feelingand never proffer your hand to the same—if they want you to know how they feel, they’ll tell you. If they want to shake hands, they’ll offer theirs first). Ronnie was perhaps the first human being (I’m not counting Gambol here because he was a dog) that I had gotten close to—man or woman. He was not a demanding sort of person. I often thought to myself about the contrast between Ronnie and Barbara. Why could not she be more like him? Ronnie and I would often take long walks and he would discuss aspects of his thesis and ask me what fields I was becoming interested in. Often we would just walk in meditative silence. How different this silence was from silences that occurred between Barbara and me. With Barbara silence meant that something was wrong. One of us had to be mad or else troubled. The natural state was to talk (usually about our (odious for me) future). We could never simply be. We were always forced to be planning something, it was necessary to be always trying to get somewhere. With Ronnie it was different. Perhaps it was because there was nothing sexual involved that we were allowed to be freer, but when we took our walks, the silences denoted quiet contemplation, enjoying the scenery or simply relaxing. There was no pressure to be constantly probing the other’s mind. His thoughts were his affair; mine were mine. We remained very separate and yet considerate at the same time. One day I told him about Barbara. We were sitting in a pub over our drinks. “Are you going to marry her?” he asked. “I don’t know,” I replied. I stared into my pint of half ‘n half (bitter and lager). “In many ways I wish I didn’t have to.” “Is she pregnant?” “Of course not. She’s a very careful girl.” I half wondered to myself whether Barbara would have ever allowed herself to become pregnant in an effort to insure the success of her snares. I dismissed the thought since it would entail too great of a risk on her part and one thing that Barbara did not do was to take risks which would endanger herself. “Then why don’t you sing her the long good-bye?” Marlowe himself was not made of hard enough stuff for that order. “I’m not sure whether it would be right. After all, in the U.S. sex is inextricably linked with marriage. Since I’ve slept with her I feel under an obligation.” “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of. Things aren’t so different in Britain. She’s just trying to use leverage on you. How do you know you were the first with her?” “Oh really!” I felt as if he could not be serious. “No, I’mserious. Didshe bleed? Didshe act clumsy? Didsheshow enormous waves of guilt over it? These are all signs, you know.” I was thrown into some confusion. No, I don’t know if she bled. I was not paying attention. She didn’t mention it. Did she act clumsy? No! It was I who acted clumsy. She helped me along. She seemed so sure of herself and there was certainly no wave of guilt. I wondered whether she’d another partner or partners before me? This would take me off the hook. But the problem was that I couldn’t say for sure. But even if it were true, could I still leave her? She had constructed a model in which I had promised to marry her. Could I back down now? “Well, look, even if I was not the first, could I back out of a promise to marry her?” “You promised?” He looked worried. This was a new complication. “Rather.” “But what were the circumstances of the promise?” His face lit up as a man whose knotty problem was straightening itself out. “I’ve told you, when she finishes school I will come back and marry her.” I decided to take a long drink. “But she hasn’t really been on the up and up with you, you know. A promise extracted under distress is not binding, elementary ethics in anyone’s system.” Ronnie was getting into the argument. He lit his pipe and was busily puffing away. I took another drink. “But I’m not sure if I really want her to go away. You see I do feel some sort of attachment towards her.” “Quite; you’d be a cad not to feel anything. But there’s a considerable difference between having affection for someone you sleep with and wanting your bed-partner to be your wife.” He had a point. I was perhaps under no strict ethical obligation to marry Barbara. I could leave her in America and I’d not be engaging in some grave moral sin. But still this did not satisfy me. It wasn’t as simple as I was describing it to Ronnie. There was a sense that I loved her. I don’t know if I was using the word correctly, but I felt dependent upon her. My concern for her gave rise to a sense of loyalty. I felt I would be disloyal to her to give her the shove. I would be disloyal to her and perhaps to myself (that part of myself which made judgments and promises). Maybe it was because I had lost both of my parents and had been forced to move about in my youth (consequently having no real friends) that I put such a high premium on people being loyal to each other. Devotion meant sticking by the other chap even when it was not to your advantage to do so. Without devotion this whole social fabric would come apart. Leaving Barbara would be contradicting all of this. I would be going against some part of me that was beyond rational control. I felt compelled to return to Barbara, but knew that I could never let Ronnie understand how and why I felt this way. “That’s true, but it’s so complicated. I can’t see myself straight on this one.” “You sound like a bloody idiot, you know.” “I probably am not being rational, but I can’t help it.” “We can all help it. Rationality must rule all. It’s part of the Cambridge creed, you know.” I nodded my head and finished my drink. The next morning I was awake before Anthea. She was sleeping very late, I thought. The sun was already up and so I decided to get some fire wood. I plodded back in the woods past the latrine we had constructed and looked around for wood lying on the ground. I knew enough not to try and get green wood which would only burn very slowly, but there didn’t seem to be much heavy wood around. I had figured that wood gathering would be an easy task, but it wasn’t. It was necessary to search high and low for something that would do. After quite a while I did manage to get some good sized branches which I lugged back to camp. When I returned, Anthea was still asleep. I decided to surprise her with a fire. I broke some of the sticks and set them up as I had seen her do. It wouldn’t go. I tried lighting the bark, but the dew on it wouldn’t allow it to light. I decided to cheat and got some paper to put under it all. It still wouldn’t catch. The paper burned right enough, but it wouldn’t ignite the thick branches which I had so diligently collected. “You have to start with small sticks first,” I heard. Turning around, I saw Anthea poking her head out of the tent. “The big ones won’t catch by themselves.” I smiled and went over to her and threw her the matches. “Here, you show me how to light a fire.” And she did. Chapter Eight IT WAS CHILLY in the morning so we huddled close together as we drank our tea and ate the hard roll which was our breakfast. Anthea was especially close to me. It was hard to believe that we had had a disagreement only the evening before. When we were finished, Anthea suggested we make a stock pile of wood. “I think we should stay here. It’s very nice and we’re not going to get anything better.” I was not going to argue for more hiking so we sallied forth and gathered sticks. Anthea’s theory for fire starting had to do with acquiring sticks of all sizes and large amounts of dried moss and lichen. The fire was built up from small to large with the moss and tiniest twigs acting as tinder to ignite the whole project. I was determined to light the next one to test my technique. When we had gotten all the material together Anthea asked me, “You know your idea about laws has one serious defect: it does not allow anybody to do anything about bad laws. The people are all at the mercy of the government.” This was the last thing in the world that I expected her to say at that moment. Perhaps that was what she had been brooding about all that time. She had been thinking about our conversation and when she had come up with what she considered to be a strong objection, then she warmed up to me again. I tell you, philosophy is sexy. It gets you thinking. And thinking is very close to who you are. What could be more stimulating? Anthea’s proposition put everything into a new light. I’m always happy to talk about the good, the true, or the beautiful so I replied, “Bad laws or civil disobedience are not a problem at all. You see, if there is a bad law one has three options: first, one can try to change the law through Congress and the normal legislative process. This is the ideal model. But it does not always work. ”If that does not work, then one may try openly disobeying the law and making oneself or a large number of people examples of the law. If one can amass a large enough group to openly protest the law in this fashion, then it will bring attention to your viewpoint. If you are correct, hopefully, others will voice their accord and put pressure on their representatives to change the law. ”However, this second model is dangerous in that the individual runs the risk of going to jail. The final option involves leaving the country and renouncing one’s citizenship. This is only for the individual who feels that there is no hope to change the law and/ or feels that the state in which he had been residing is not worth saving.” “What if you don’t have enough money to leave the country?” “Well, you get a bus from Chicago and go north.” My reply came off like a prepared speech. This was because I had given it so many times before in my philosophy classes. She was perhaps thinking about this problem for the first time and I had ceased thinking about it years before. I had solved the problem to my satisfaction. But she wasn’t yet convinced. We started taking a walk through the woods going west. They were full with new growth, yet were not too difficult to navigate. All of a sudden I felt not as this woman ` s lover but as her tutor. She, who had lorded over me, was now faced with a different role. And I was not sure how to handle myself or whether I even liked it. “But what would happen if you lived in a country which was not a democracy?” she asked after we had walked slowly in silence for a half hour or so (remember I didn’t have a working watch) “Obviously the first option would be closed to you,” I began with a little surprise at how much she was interested in this topic. “One would be forced to alter the law in another way, if they thought that such a law should be changed.” “But take Russia, for example. There they could not have the law changed. The government would shoot them down with machine guns.” I was a little surprised at the vigor with which she delivered this reply, but I continued, “I’m not so sure that is true. Remember the strikes that they had in Poland in 1980 and how they affected labor reform.” “Poland is not Russia.” “True. Let’s imagine, for example, a state where reform within the existing government is impossible. In such a state one would, I suppose, have to work for the overthrow of the entire government. This would be done in the name of morality. The individual cannot abide by these immoral laws and yet he cannot simply covertly break them. He would have to disappear into the ‘underground’ and wage a campaign to topple the regime.” “Let me see if I have this straight,” she started. “If I were living in Russia and they passed a law forbidding marijuana, then I should work to overthrow that government? Sounds a little extreme.” “Ah, but you see, the use of any particular drug (except in cases where it is designed to save a life and it is the only drug which will do so) is not a moral issue. You would have no valid moral grounds for your objection.” “Marijuana smoking is not a moral issue?” “No. It is a non-moral issue, because there is no moral right to a particular form of pharmaceutical recreation.” “How do you get that?” “The realm of morals only deals with one’s duties insofar as they affect the abilities of others to act and live freely.” “That’s just what I said yesterday. My smoking a joint does not hurt anyone, so it isn’t bad.” “Your smoking a joint is not in itself a moral issue. What is a moral issue is that the government has passed a law against it. The government has every right to pass laws governing non-moral issues. When they do, you must abide by their decision.” “I don’t understand.” “Look. Take driving the car. There is nothing inherently moral abouthow fast you drive. There is nothingmagical about 55 miles per hour. They could have set it at 60 or at 50. Where they set it is morally arbitrary. What isn’t arbitrary is that once they set it you must obey it. The cases we were just discussing were concerning moral issues only.” “Well, then, what would count as a moral issue?” “Take a country that systematically robbed a particular group of their rights. In Nazi Germany, the Jews were terrorized and murdered by law. Now if you understood this law to be immoral (and any moral agent should), then you are obliged not to obey it. If your option to change the law within the system is not open to you and you cannot escape the country, then you must work to overthrow the government. You cannot sit passively and support a system which is immoral.” Anthea did not respond. The teaching impulse got ahold of me for a moment and I could not resist adding, “But if you were living in Nazi Germany and they had not done anything immoral yet and they passed a law forbidding you to eat hotdogs, or drink wine or smoke marijuana or drive an automobile, you would not be justified in trying to overthrow the government or practice civil disobedience since it is within the government’s legitimate power to legislate on any non-moral matter it chooses.” Anthea pursed her lips. I did not like to take the tutor role. But it would be arrogant of me to ignore her arguments—especially when I refused to smoke dope with her. And that was that. She didn’t pursue the matter. We walked for a while longer and came upon an open field. There we stood and watched the morning come into its full being. It was a glorious sight. The natural setting filled me with inspiration and it filled Anthea with lust (which is as good an object for one’s inspiration as any other). We began kissing and were just about to get down to business when we heard some giggling. You don’t know how startling that can be to think that you are completely isolated and away from everyone and then to hear some high pitched giggling. We turned around and saw three little kids, two girls and a boy, spying on us. “Where did you come from?” I asked, hoping that the sound of my voice would scare them away so that we could finish what we had begun. “Over there,” said the boy who appeared to be the oldest. “Are you camped there?” They nodded their heads vigorously. “Want to come see?” asked the youngest girl. I was about to say no, since I had other things to attend to. But before I had the chance, Anthea had accepted. “I thought that we were camping to get away from people, not to be making their acquaintances,” I said under my breath as we followed the little beggars back to their camp. It was not far. They were located in another open area which had a number of stumps on it. This was an “official” camp ground with a stake in the ground that was numbered. The campsite was on one side of the dirt road that we had not taken. They had two motor campers and a tent. “There must be more than one family,” I said as we just got this sight into view.“ Unless someone likes trailers,” she returned lightheartedly. Then a woman came into view. She was wearing blue jeans which were rolled up to mid-calf. She wore a red plaid shirt and had her black hair held up in a scarf. She was not particularly good looking, but then she wasn’t ugly either. When she saw the children bringing us she brightened and waved. “Howdy! Did the children find you?” “They’re very friendly,” began Anthea (I could tell by the tone of her voice that she liked this other woman), “are they yours?” “Two of them are. I claim Tad, the oldest and C...
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Running Head: DISCUSSION POST

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Discussion Post
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DISCUSSION POST

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Why does Andrew sometimes defend natural law (for example, on what constitutes
marriage) and at other times is a conventionalist (on the drug conversation)?
Andrew recognizes that natural law has always perceived a connection between the
wellbeing of society and the health of a marriage. Based on this law, Andrew recognizes that
marriage cannot be perceived as an inner experience. It is a crucial social foundation that
everyone in the community respects. Andrew feels that since marriage is promoted by nature, it
has a purpose, and th...


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