THE TWO-STORY HOUSE on Highland Street was conveniently located about halfway between the MSU and Southwestern campuses. That was probably the only good thing about it.
Talking Brian… well, nagging, really… okay, badgering Brian into that move was a huge mistake.
“Please stop calling Richard dickhead.”
“Is asshole better?” He slammed his bedroom door in her face. The windows rattled. She sighed, took another deep breath, and quietly let herself into his room.
Brian’s room was… so Brian. Everything he owned was scrambled and tossed around the room. She could feel the blush in her cheeks every time she entered it—and it had nothing to do with the mess. He’d been painting the walls since the day they’d moved, almost two months earlier. Not baby blue or sunflower yellow or fanatically fuchsia or deeply depressed black. He’d been painting them. There were nude women everywhere. Most were charcoal renderings of MSU girls, but there were several acrylic portrayals she recognized as classmates at Southwestern—and two she knew by name! Coyly looking over their shoulders, draping themselves in chairs, lounging suggestively all over his walls—images she didn’t need in her head when she sat next to them in class.
Irksome was the fact that it had become something akin to winning a Nobel Prize to have your body rendered on Brian Carowack’s bedroom walls that year. Well, that and his talent for detail were both infuriating.
She crossed the room silently and sat down on his rumpled bed. The whole place smelled like turpentine and Brut cologne. He watched her, rocking backward on two legs of his chair, never hitting the wall behind him.
“I hate that guy.”
“No kidding. Any specific reason?”
He glanced away. “No. I hate everything about him, equally.”
If this clash were between anyone but Richard and Brian, she could have ignored it—might have enjoyed it as she’d rarely seen Brian impassioned about anything but art before. But it was Richard whom she felt in her bones, and in her heart, was destined to become one of America’s great leaders, and Brian who hadn’t truly disliked anyone since Donny Moore in first grade. Something about it felt very wrong.
People person described them both. Richard reaching out with his words, stirring minds and hearts with his beliefs, instilling the courage and the strength to fight for their convictions. Brian quietly taking them into his heart, cherishing their spirit, admiring their form, loving the expressions on their faces.
“Richard likes you,” she said, appealing to his conscience. “He thinks you’re extremely talented.”
“He thinks I’m an idiot. He thinks he can use his vocabulary of fancy four-syllable words to talk in circles. He thinks he can say anything he wants and people will believe him. And the sad thing is, some of them do.”
Moments ago he’d said pretty much the same thing to Richard’s face, only he’d been more accusing and his language had been far more colorful.
“We’re all entitled to an opinion, Brian.”
“Do not,” he said, standing up, “condescend to me. That’s his trick. Talk to me like a person, like you used to. Tell me you believe all that shit he’s serving about the government using the war as a means of black genocide. Tell me you believe him.”
“Statistically…”
“Not statistically. Sincerely. Do you believe in your heart that it’s true?”
She lowered her eyes to the floor. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
He was silent for several minutes. Hoping, too, she supposed.
“America isn’t perfect. Nothing’s perfect. The government sucks sometimes. But it’s the people in this country that make up the government, and aren’t there more good people here than bad?” He paced two steps forward and back again. “Hasn’t it done some good? Ever? Anywhere? Where else in the world can you tell the government when it’s gotten off track, when it’s doing things we don’t approve of, and hope for change. Expect it to change. God, Livy, what happens if we stop believing? What happens if we really think that the people who run this country are capable of the mass murder of thousands and thousands of black men?” A horrible quiet. “If you believe it’s possible, then there is no hope for this country. Blacks will never be equal. The war will go on forever. The environment will be destroyed. We’ll starve and die.”
Brian was no speech maker, never had been. But when he had something to say, he really said it.
“I’m sorry, Livy,” he said, sitting down in the chair once more. “I know you think he might be another JFK, but I think he and his newspaper are full of shit.”
No one could be another JFK, but Richard was unquestionably someone special. People listened to him. They read what he wrote in the Freedom Express, quoted him all the time. Given time, Brian would see it, too. Her smile was small and lopsided.
“Think we can set up a DMZ in the living room where nobody discusses politics or religion?”
He looked at her, amusement warming the chill in his eyes.
“Like we talk politics in the kitchen only, civil rights in the dining room, ecology in the front foyer, equal rights for women in the big bathroom downstairs, and… we plan sex in the living room?”
“No sex in the living room.”
“Movies and music then.”
She laughed. “He really does like you, you know.”
“He really pretends to… for you. If he thought he could swing it, he’d stick a bow on my nose and present me to the Marines.”
“Oh, Brian.” She would never believe that.
It took some time, but a strained agreement to cordially disregard one another was as friendly as Brian and Richard ever got.
Brian and Alben Hollender were another story. Not only were they both MSU students, they shared a deep appreciation for college nightlife and the sexual revolution.
Alben, however, was also closely involved with Richard’s antiwar activities. He knew people. All sorts of people. Brian said he could charm the scales off a snake. Much of what he did for Richard had to do with money, for the newspaper mostly, and Alben didn’t talk about it much—which was fine with Brian—but it also made him something of a mystery.
By his own design, Alben slept in the only bedroom on the first floor. For quick escapes, he’d said. She’d thought he was joking at first, but as time went by she came to believe that he did feel safer close to the ground.
As for Stephanie with her wire-rimmed glasses and toothy smile, she was indeed not Brian’s type, but he seemed to have a certain fondness for her.
“Steph! Spell resipsaloquitur,” he’d call from wherever he was at the time.
“What?”
“Res ipsa loquitur. Three words. Latin.” A pause. “You know, somehow it seems fitting that the American legal system still adheres to a dead language.”
She’d try to spell his word-of-the-day—painstakingly chosen from a legal dictionary he’d stolen from the law library specifically for this game—and sometimes succeed, pleasing him entirely.
But if she couldn’t…
“Good try, but it’s r-e-s i-p-s-a 1-o-q-u-i-t-u-r. Got it? My mom used to make me write my misspelled words twenty times each. That worked pretty well. And you should keep a list for quick reference. If you’re going to law school, you’re going to need to know this stuff. They say presentation is about 99 percent of it. Here, I wrote down the definition, too.”
His calling her Steph had made her shudder at first, but she got used to it, and if the truth were known, Livy always had the feeling that Brian was exactly Stephanie’s type, despite his lack of ambition, old family name, and money.
Long into the night she would hear the two of them talking—God only knew what about, they had so little in common. And shortly after Valentine’s Day that year, he painted her portrait—with clothes—as an anniversary gift for her parents later that summer.
Stephanie’s function in the house was clear. To use her brilliant mind to advise Richard on local, state, and government legalities involving his antiwar activities; to explain procedures; to keep him updated on issues he may have overlooked, and in general, to be his second brain.
The house on Highland Street could have been a campaign headquarters. In fact, it reminded her a lot of her days as a volunteer with Senator Gore’s campaign. Lots of planning. Lots of busyness. Lots of tension. Between school and the house on Highland Street she often felt like a cross-eyed boy at a three-ring circus—and she loved every minute of it.
But (and it was a big but at the time) she couldn’t help wondering why she had been invited to move in.
“Are you kidding?” Brian was amused by her ignorance. He’d wandered into her room looking for a pen—as if he might study if he had one—and caught her deep in thought. Janis Joplin was playing on her eight-track stereo tape player; she loved that hoarse, raspy voice of hers. “Livy, people follow you like a tail on a comet. Your enthusiasm for a cause is contagious. It always has been. Your eyes… the way you talk about it…”
“In Tolford, maybe. But I’m a lowly student here, like everyone else. A nobody. No one listens to a sophomore journalism major.”
“They listen to you. You know they do. Every time you say something about Richard, one more person will listen to him. And if they get tired of his ranting, they’ll still come back to hear what you have to say. Hell, every time he opens his mouth it’s almost verbatim from the articles you write for the paper—on the war, on racism, on…”
“I don’t write them alone. Stephanie and Alben…”
“Stephanie and Alben are like… like reference books. Brilliant and street smart. You’re the one that makes sense of it. You string the words together. The words are yours, Livy. The sincerity is yours. The energy is yours. I’m here to keep your parents happy. You’re here because Richard needs you.”
She laughed. “Richard doesn’t need me. Richard’s…” She stopped to search for eloquent words.
“Richard’s a hot-air balloon. Without you to fill him full of gas, he’d fall flat.”
“No. I… don’t be so…”
“Yes.” He looked her straight in the eyes, his certainty as clear as his concerns. “Watch him, Livy. Listen to him. Think about what he says. Don’t…” He stopped and looked away.
“What?”
He sighed. “Don’t let what you want to see cloud what really is.”
She leaned back on one elbow and drew her legs up on the bed. She considered him for several moments before saying, “You know, Psych 101 has made you very insightful. Higher learning is rubbing off on you whether you want it to or not, isn’t it?”
He sighed and gave her a closed-lip grin. Their long friendship shone deep in his eyes.
“Just be careful. Richard isn’t the only one around here who needs you.” He stood to leave, offering her one last endearment. “Smartass.”
She watched him snag a pen from her desk, walk across the hall, and close his bedroom door.
The very idea that someone like Richard could actually need someone like her was… well, pretty damned thrilling. Of course, there was a vast distinction between needing someone’s thoughts and ideas, and being attracted to her as a person. As a woman. But if one were possible… the other wasn’t impossible. Right?
Platonic. Platonic, she reminded herself, falling back on the bed. Her relationship with Richard thrived on a higher cause. Right?
Come to think of it, Richard hadn’t had time for any personal, intimate relationships either. She’d have noticed if any of the girls he had long discussions with spent the night. Lots of girls fawned over him, perhaps he was too preoccupied to notice. Then again, he didn’t need other girls the way he needed her. What was it Brian said? “Without you to fill him full of gas…”
Maybe Richard needed her more than she’d realized. She wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came to picking up on these things. God, she’d actually thought herself in love with Brian once! Maybe that’s what Brian was picking up on and reacting to—he’d never been too happy with the guys who showed an interest in her or the guys she choose to date. He was worse than a big brother.
What if Richard was as attracted to her as she was to him and she hadn’t noticed?
Historically, the Age of Aquarius came to light with the discovery of the planet Uranus in 1784. The Industrial Revolution was taking place in Europe and drastic changes were affecting essentially all spheres of life. Astrologers say Aquarius rules Uranus, that its key word is change (usually disruptive or sudden), and that the planet is frequently associated with dramatic, unexpected events. They said the coming of the Age of Aquarius would be a time of great scientific expansion and of humanitarian deeds, that it would be an astronomical phenomenon related to the complexities of the earth’s motion, and that it would have an effect on every member of the zodiac.
Brian figured that was as good an explanation for the state of world affairs as any he’d come across so far. The Fifth Dimension was right on, man—a little idealistic perhaps, but as far as phenomenal explanations went, how far off could they be?
“No. It has two i’s,” he told Stephanie, handing her the correct spelling and the gruesome definition of the words, disjecta membra—scattered remains or parts or limbs. “It’s pretty gory, but the way things are going you’ll probably need that one. A lot.”
Livy, making a sandwich, turned from the counter to read the definition over Stephanie’s shoulder and grimaced. She looked at him, narrowing her eyes.
“Are you growing a beard?”
“And a mustache,” he said, preening.
“That might be a mistake, you know,” was all she said. She turned to finish making her meal.
Being the sole jock in the house, the only thing he had in common with the preppies from Southwestern—like Richard and his pals—was unfashionably short hair. He was aiming to nix that similarity right away. Despite his coach’s objections, and the unfair rules against it.
“Larry’s not going to like it either,” she added, shaking her head. She’d been with Brian when he saw the sign posted in the drugstore window over Christmas vacation. It read: Keep America Clean. Get a Haircut.
“I know,” he said with a devilish grin. “I’ve been thinking about asking for a hair dryer for my birthday. Or maybe a mink coat like Joe Namath’s.”
Larry wasn’t an all-bad guy. Actually, he was pretty okay. He was good to Brian’s mom and to Beth. He and the new baby Bobby shared this thing for fire engines. And he kept trying to understand Brian. He wasn’t an all-bad stepdad. He was just so… uptight.
“I like your hair,” Stephanie said, her voice soft and shy, extremely unlawyerly. That was what Brian liked best about her. She was the most unlikely prelaw student ever born. Small, quiet, mousy. Clever and thoughtful. She was going to be the most lethal criminal attorney in the country someday—or the world’s greatest failure. Either way, he liked her.
He grinned and winked at her for the compliment, then watched her blush. It was the rare woman, indeed, who wasn’t fall-down stupid for him.
“I do, too. I like it,” Livy said, also watching Stephanie turn pink, but with much less appreciation. “You look like one of the twelve apostles. Next thing we know, you’ll be walking on water.”
His brows rose in astonishment. “You mean you haven’t heard about that yet? Last Thursday night. After the supper.” Stephanie giggled. “No one was more surprised than I was.”
“What were you on?” she asked, close to enjoying his blasphemy, but reluctant to miss an opportunity to point out his faults. She had one hand on her hip, the other hand clasped about a mustard-coated knife.
Livy wasn’t what you’d call a real drinker. She’d drink a few beers now and again to mellow out, but no more. Anything powdered, pilled, or crystallized made her nervous and she wouldn’t even try it, which was fine by him. She didn’t like that he drank so much, though, but she rarely said anything if he did. To do so would have been very uncool, what with everyone doing their own thing and all. However, she did, on occasion, read him articles on the permanent physical damages caused by alcohol—and now that he was smoking cigarettes, nicotine. Clip them out of magazines and tape them to his door—just to keep him abreast of things.
“Straight incense and holy water. I was practically sober,” he said, taking the knife from her. He spread mustard yellow on whole wheat brown and finished the sandwich. Picked it up and ate it, too. Livy punched him.
“What? It’s Friday night. Relax. Fix yourself some real food for a change. Try eating in a sitting position. What’s your hurry? You got ą boat to catch… or another hot all-nighter with the Freedom Express?”
“It shouldn’t be all night,” she said, her thoughts already on the article she wanted to finish. She took two more slices of bread from the bag and started another sandwich. “Richard needs the article I’m doing on Kleindienst and his repression of ‘ideological criminals.’ Can you believe that guy? ‘When you see an epidemic like this cropping up all over the country—the same kind of people saying the same kinds of things—you begin to get the picture that it is a national subversive activity,’ ” she quoted the assistant attorney general. “If he’d take another look at the picture, he’d see that the same people saying the same things are the same people who have to go fight a war that has nothing to do with them. If it’s epidemic, maybe someone should listen.”
“Isn’t she cute when she’s mad?” Brian mumbled around the sandwich to Stephanie, who giggled on cue. “My favorite is her Betty Friedan speech about defining human personality and destiny in terms of sex organs.” He swallowed. “Brings tears to my eyes every time.”
“Don’t laugh at him, Stephanie,” she said, slapping her sandwich together. “He’s pathetic. He sees women as good for only one thing. He uses women. And he’s going to be so sorry one of these days.”
“What are you talking about? I love women,” he said, his eyes twinkling merrily.
Livy rose to the bait every time. It never seemed to matter that he’d spent the greater part of his life listening to her, respecting her opinions, believing in her capabilities, supporting her interests, and regarding her not only as his equal, but in many ways vastly superior to himself. He enjoyed sex with females who enjoyed sex; therefore he was a chauvinist pig.
He could live with it.
“Love women? You?” She made a sputtering noise, saw the laughter in his eyes, and closed her mouth tight. She flipped her long hair over her shoulder with a movement of her head that was nothing if not scornful, and grabbed up the leather bag she carried her life around in. “I am not going to discuss this with you again, Brian Carowack. You don’t take the women’s movement seriously. You don’t take anything seriously. Not even your art. You are so talented, and you take it for granted. It’s just something you can do. Something else you’re good at. Well, take a look around, pal. This isn’t high school anymore. It’s not going to be basketball and getting laid forever. It’s time to grow up.”
He watched her stomp off, heard the front door slam seconds later. He glanced at Stephanie, who couldn’t or wouldn’t meet his gaze, and slouched back in the chair, disgruntled. Mostly with himself.
He hated it when Livy was mad at him. More, he hated that she thought he didn’t care. He did care. Well, not about the women’s movement perhaps, but other things. Huge things that he felt he had no control over. Terrifying things that were threatening to suck him in, chew him up, and swallow him. Little things that seemed far beyond his reach. Noble things he was afraid would never be his.
And so he laughed, when he should have been crying. He drank when he should have been shrieking at the world. He floated downstream like a leaf on a current, making no waves, causing no trouble. He pretended to be invisible, slipping from one day to the next without being seen, trying to go unnoticed by the dangers that awaited him, praying they’d move on without him.
He read somewhere that a moment of insanity was all that separated a hero from a coward. He called his madness surviving.
No social disorder in the world could affect college parties. But even better than a party was hanging out. Hanging out was a party for no special reason, without a theme, without invitations, with no preparations necessary, no time limits observed, no etiquette expected. You could hang out alone, but for party purposes, two or more was better. You could hang out at one place for a while, leave, hang out somewhere else, and come back. As far as Brian knew, there never were any set rules to hanging out.
And so it was that night, late in March of 1970, almost spring but still bitterly cold at night. He returned to the house on Highland Street to find a few more people than he’d left there two or three hours earlier. Somebody had Switched-on Bach—Walter Carlos with a Moog synthesizer—and neglected to open any windows. He could have gotten high on the second-hand smoke—if he hadn’t been in flight already.
It was still early, a little after midnight maybe. He was sleepy but still willing to hang out if anyone else was so inclined, which didn’t appear to be the case at first. He roamed through the dining room and kitchen first, spotting sleepers in dark corners and a small group of serious-minded political types deep in discussion. Yawn.
He took a cold beer from his hiding place in the wood bin on the back porch and continued through the house, looking for a familiar face. By the time he slouched down beside an unattended brunette on the couch, he’d come to realize that he knew only two or three people by name, and half a dozen more by sight. The rest were strangers… including the brunette.
“Hi.” One syllable, and she slurred it.
“Hi.”
“Far out.”
“Yep.”
“Man…”
“I know.”
Ordinarily, he might have considered a dialogue on lost civilizations and attempted Utopias with this girl, but he wasn’t in the mood. He slid to the floor, his back against the couch, and closed his eyes, his mind ambiguously associating danger with the burning candles all around the room.
The music had changed. Something bluesy. Something W. C. Handy, he thought. He revered the man’s talent and let his music carry him into the shadows of life, where souls speak and hearts listen. He grew peaceful and drowsy, his mind slipping below the music, catching bits and pieces of murmured conversation around him—a soft laugh, pleasured throaty noises, the unmistakable sounds of a love struggle… and Livy.
He opened his eyes, but he didn’t move. Richard came first, picking his way carefully around and over their languid guests, leading Livy to the center of the room and the coffee table littered with empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays and a small array of pharmaceutical party supplies that could be had for the taking.
“Whoops! Sorry,” she whispered loudly to an inert form at her feet. She giggled, through her nose. “Where did all these people come from,” she asked in the same soft-loud voice. “I don’t think I know any of them. Hi! Who are you? Whoops!”
Livy was lit. He hadn’t been around for a few days, so it was good to see her. They hadn’t talked about the night she blew up at him, but he knew she wasn’t mad anymore. She never stayed mad at him.
“Richard,” she called faintly. “Do you see any Coke in here? I could sure use a Coke. I’ll drink anything, but I sure could use a Coke. Do you see any in here? Whoops! Sorry. Do I know you?”
Richard hushed her, pulling her down to sit on the floor beside him—six or eight feet from Brian. They kissed.
That’s when he should have gotten up and ripped Richard’s head off, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Stone-drunk had taken on a dual meaning. He was stoned and he was a stone. He felt like a stone. Through the slits of his eyes, he watched. Disgusted and fascinated at once. He knew what it was to kiss Livy; his body remembered. She looped an arm around Richard’s neck and Brian’s heart skipped erratically. She pressed herself against him—Brian could feel that, too. Richard murmured in her ear and Brian’s mind filled with the scent of lilacs.
His body grew hard and taut as he watched them. Richard’s hands inside her sweater, Livy feebly halting their progress.
If for one second she appeared frightened or angry, Brian was sure he could have broken through the heavy, stony paralysis to kill Richard. But she didn’t. She kissed him again and again. Held him close. Smiled at him.
She pulled his hand out from under her skirt and whispered something in his ear. She laughed quietly in response to his reply, then let him pass the open end of a Jack Daniels bottle from his lips to hers.
With the eyes of a man who had been there before, Brian watched as Richard helped Livy get fried to the gills. She became more and more relaxed, babbled cheerfully, kissed passionately.
In a moment he would regret forever, he faked sleep when he heard her say, “Wait. Wait a second. Is that… is that my Brian there? Pissssst. Pisssst. Brian?” Richard shushed her, trying to kiss her again. “Out cold,” she determined, then giggled. “Have I ever told you how much I love that guy?” She sighed happily as he laid her back on the floor. “Did you see those way cool posters he made for the Earth Day celebration next month? He hates doing that kind of stuff. But he did it. Without me asking him to… even. He’s the best friend I ever had. The very best. I love him,” she said between Richard’s kisses. “More than anybody in the whole wide world.” Her arms flopped wide to demonstrate the present size of her world, and Richard promptly filled the space with his body, covering hers, blocking her from sight.
Brian felt cold all over. Nausea pooled at the back of his throat and still he didn’t move. Couldn’t move. His body began to ache from the tension. His chest felt tight around his lungs; he could barely breathe. His mind drifted deeper and deeper into the stonelike state, refusing to acknowledge the pain and anger he had no right to feel, attempting to dull the tremendous sorrow in his soul. He closed his eyes tight, wishing for the past, wishing for the time when he was the closest man to her heart.
He couldn’t look at them anymore. Wouldn’t. He could tell by the sounds they were making that Richard was already spent. Livy was no longer a virgin and a heart-shattering wail rose up within him. He pressed his lips tight, biting down on them with his teeth. His chin quivered. A tear rolled down his right cheek.
It was in the silence that followed, with only the sweet, sad music to cling to, that his wretched soul finally spoke the truth and his miserable heart listened.
He loved her. He’d always loved her—from the very beginning. He began to tremble as if shivering with cold. Chills ran riot over his body. His mouth was full of saliva, he swallowed hard, and it was full once again. It was salty. He really was going to throw up this time.
He rolled to one side, staggering to his feet, tripping once or twice on his way to the bathroom.
He was in love. With Livy. He’d always been in love with her. She was everything to him. He hurled food he ate before Christmas into the toilet, then wished he could die. He was in love with Livy.
Ah, man, couldn’t he ever do anything right? Just once? Would he ever be normal? Why was he continually picking the impossible roads to nowhere? Plumbers were normal—a regular paycheck, a house, a wife, 3.5 children. That was normal. Whoever heard of a normal man falling in love with his best friend? Normal men had men friends and fell in love with strange women… well, women they hadn’t spent their entire life with anyway. Livy would never love him… not this way… not like this. Ah, man, he was really screwed now.
It was difficult to tell how long he lay there, talking to the toilet, feeling like the biggest fool in the world. But there he was when the doorknob rattled and there he stayed to watch Livy peek inside at him.
“Oh. Hi,” she said. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was… are you all right? You look pale.”
“Too much fun.”
Her smile was small. “Me, too,” she said, stepping inside and closing the door. He made an effort to move and give her room at the commode. “No, no. I’m not sick. I… wish I was.”
This time he lifted his head off the floor to look at her. She too was pale, and she might have been crying. He scooted into a sitting position, resting his back against the wall.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his heart twisting painfully.
“Sure. Just tired,” she said, wetting two washcloths with cold water. She wrung them out, tossed him one, and applied the other to her face. “Got a headache.”
“Me, too,” he said. And a heartache she’d never believe, he thought. He had a deranged moment of amusement at the thought of telling her. Not only would she laugh at him, she’d carve his chauvinist ass into pork chops—fry him up and serve him at an ERA meeting.
There was no way it could ever work out between them.
“How, ah, how long have you been awake?” she asked. She couldn’t look him in the eye, he noticed. Did she think he’d see in her eyes that she was different? Would she care if he could? Did he care that she was?
Yes.
Ironic, wasn’t it? He could have sex with a thousand women and she wouldn’t care. She makes love once and it feels like the end of the world to him.
“What’s so funny?” she asked at his chuckle.
“I feel like I’ve been asleep forever.”
She nodded, staring at the linoleum floor. Her legs and feet were bare. He wondered about her underpants, where they were, then squeezed his eyes closed, feeling shame. She didn’t look happy. He’d only been with one virgin, Cathy Dixon, and couldn’t recollect much of what happened afterward. He wasn’t sure about a girl’s first time. He’d been ecstatic as he recalled.
“I’m as dry as a wool sock,” he said suddenly. “Wanna Coke?” She looked up and nodded at him. “Got any money?” She shook her head. “Okay,” he said, using his feet to push himself up the wall. “Get your shoes and a coat and meet me at the front door.”
Knowing where she’d have to go to get her shoes, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor to use the phone extension Richard had hot-wired into his room. He checked the rest of the bedrooms for sleeping roommates, found none, and returned to the first floor. Livy was waiting at the door.
He rolled his eyes like the village idiot and told her his coat was in the living room, and it was. So was Richard, passed out cold. Without ceremony, Brian rolled him face down on the carpet and removed the wallet from his back pocket.
“The least you could do is buy the girl a Coke, you dumb fuck.” He took a fiver, and a second look at Richard convinced him to help himself to the remaining twenty as well. “I’m going to need gas, too.”
Dropping the wallet, he hurried away to get Livy out of the house.
Funny thing about that night… While Livy might have taken her Coke home and to bed, Brian still had some hanging out to do. He took her to meet what he called “some gentle souls”—back-to-nature hippies who were intense in their efforts to return to Mother Earth, weaving and sewing their own clothes, growing their own food, educating their own children, creating their own barter system. They listened to the planning of a commune in the Pacific Northwest until nearly dawn, when Livy fell asleep with her head on Brian’s lap.
Meanwhile, back at the house on Highland Street, not fifteen minutes after they had left, the police arrived. They walked straight in the unlocked front door and arrested everyone inside.