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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