Photo Sessions: Penn State Calendar Girls--A Novel of Scandal in Happy Valley

By Jon Michael Miller

It began as a hobby, a remedy for cabin fever. It became a creative obsession, a middle-age male fantasy come true. It shocked the sleepy university town of State College, PA, and turned Mullin's life upsidedown. He tried to recapture the sexual innocence of hayrides and back seats. Instead, he created a scandal.

A fictionalized version of a real case, this gripping novel explores sexual assault, middle-age madness, the boundaries of consent, and prosecutorial misconduct. It also takes the reader on the topsy-turvy journey of T. Douglas Mullin's harrowing attempt to comprehend the role of women in his life.

Wry, ironic, surprising, "Photo Sessions" is a parable for our time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Michael Miller
• Release date: Sep 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465786623

Jon Michael Miller

Born and raised in the farmland of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, Jon Michael Miller received a teaching degree from Penn State University. After teaching high school English a number of years in his home area, he attended graduate school at Ohio State during the turbulent 60’s when he was introduced to Transcendental Meditation as taught by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. He then spent twelve years in the TM movement, rising to work directly under the spiritual master himself and later for the movement’s television station in Los Angeles. To activate his writing career he returned to Penn State where he earned two advanced degrees, taught English, and administered a liberal arts major in which students were able to design individualized courses of study. After fifteen years in Happy Valley, during which he became a regular visitor to Jamaica, he relocated to Saint Petersburg, Florida, where he now teaches and writes.

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PHOTO SESSIONS

Penn State Calendar Girls

A Novel of Scandal in Happy Valley

by Jon Michael Miller

Copyright 2011 by Jon Michael Miller

Smashwords Edition

Although inspired by an actual occurrence, this novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events and localities in this work are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously.

AUTHOR’S COMMENT

As the author of Photo Sessions I'll simply say that besides the situation of this novel itself the book was inspired by the captivating cases of the Duke University lacrosse team and of Kobe Bryant’s unfortunate tryst in a Colorado resort. I might also mention Bill Clinton's fascinating misadventures, the more recent Strauss-Kahn situation in the Big Apple, and almost every other scandal of this particular category, notorious or purely local.

I tried to achieve the tone necessary in reference to all such cases, which, to everyone other than those directly affected, are both pruriently engaging and quietly amusing. Personal downfalls caused by sexual exploits are hardly tragic in the true sense of the word. From my own days at Penn State and in State College, Pennsylvania, I think I was able to mold certain events that occurred there into an ironic comedy that addresses the issues of middle-aged madness, prosecutorial misconduct, and the boundaries of consent.

If you have an interest in such issues, I recommend this novel to you without reservation; it was definitely, I'll confess, a five star creative experience for the writer.

~

This novel is dedicated to

the friends I made in Happy Valley.

~

There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,

Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirit looks out

At every joint and motive of her body.

William Shakespeare

Troilus and Cressida

Do I dare to eat a peach?

T. S. Eliot

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

PROLOGUE

It all started when Mullin decided to kick-start his love life.

Chapter 1

November, 2002

T. Douglas Mullin had a terminal case of cabin fever. For a man with a wandering spirit, seven years in one location and in one job had stretched his endurance to the limit. Happy Valley was so named by former students who fondly recalled their college years there. In Mullin’s mind such nostalgia could have arisen only from the temporary nature of their stay. Their pleasant memories had apparently blotted out certain verisimilitudes of the climate, for in late November and onward into April the geographical center of the Keystone State was anything but hospitable. It was even worse if the football season hadn’t been anything to cheer about, which had happened that particular year. By then Mullin’s tenure as Senior Academic Adviser in Charge of General Studies had, in his mind, become a confinement.

Saturday the 30th was a dismal day of wind and drizzle. The unimaginatively designed campus buildings looked especially gray and drab, and the wind-stripped elms, so stately when in full bloom, appeared to be clawing at a threatening sky. Thanksgiving break had left the place nearly deserted; it looked more like the state pen than Penn State, usually teeming with its sixty thousand students. The dominant stone and columned administrative center, generically deemed Old Main, stood at the edge of a vast dull lawn, walkways moving outward from the portico like rays of an unhopeful sun. The clock bell sounded a single grim note, announcing quarter after the hour, just past noon. On College Avenue, the one-way street separating the school from the borough, a few vehicles moved eastward, convoy-like, lights on, wipers wiping.

In contrast to the outer conditions, a small welcoming glow emanated from the bay window of a gray frame building, the Tavern Restaurant. At a table just inside, Mullin and his boss, Kirkland Stuart Henderson, Associate Dean for Undergraduate Issues in the College of the Liberal Arts, were having a birthday lunch of broiled trout, baked potatoes, and green beans amandine. Beside their plates sat pewter mugs containing Guinness stout.

A long time gathering place for Nittany Lion loyalists, the eatery possessed a colonial ambiance – thick ceiling beams, wood paneling, vintage football paraphernalia, and faded photographs of past gridiron heroes. A fire crackled in a limestone hearth decorated with antique cookware. Kirkland wore a powder blue cardigan and a hand-knotted bow tie of his family’s Scottish plaid. His red hair was in a crew cut, rounded to the shape of a noble cranium. Mullin’s hair was ragged, brown, graying at the temples. He slouched in sweatshirt and jeans, his rugged but thoughtful face in need of a shave.

A group of servers, one carrying a cake with burning candles, approached the table and broke into the Birthday Song. They mentioned both men’s names, Kirk and Doug, as recipients of the day’s honors. In tandem the two men blew the many candles out. The choral group’s applause was enhanced by that of a few nearby patrons. Soon the men were left alone to enjoy their dessert.

I’ve never told you this, Kirkland said, but one of the reasons I hired you was that we were born just half an hour apart. Remember how surprised we were when we made that discovery?

It sure did lighten up the job interview.

Have we discussed the other notables born on this date?

Twain, said Mullin.

Churchill.

What would really be amazing, Mullin said, is if we both kicked the bucket at the same time, too. Like old Mark coming in and going out with Halley’s Comet.

Like Jefferson and Adams. Maybe we could arrange it, a well-executed duel in which we both perish.

Not a bad idea, Mullin said. Better to go quick than wither away in this God-forsaken place. What do you think happens when you die?

There’s a viewing, of course. Eulogies. Interment in a prepaid plot.

I mean to your soul, man.

Oh, that, said Kirkland. For Presbyterians one’s spiritual future is cut and dried. And what about your Zen scheme of reference? – Reincarnation, right? With all your cynicism, maybe you were actually Samuel Clemens in a past life.

And with your insufferable stability, Mullin said, you may have been Sir Winston, except I’ve never seen you with a cigar. Did you stutter when you were a kid? Do you paint? Maybe as lowly bureaucrats, we’re being punished for past sins.

Speak for yourself. I like my work.

The two men devoured slices of chocolate cake.

My mother always told me, Mullin said, that when you’re dead, you’re dead. But I’d like to believe each in our own time we all reach Nirvana.

What if you’re wrong? Aren’t you afraid of reaching hell?

Twain said it best: ‘Heaven for climate, hell for society.’

Wherever we end up – happy forty-ninth, Mullin.

Kirkland raised his mug. They clinked and finished off their ale.

A short time later Kirkland drove as Mullin rode shotgun in a Subaru Forester along bland, wet streets, a Dave Brubeck jazz number on the stereo.

If it weren’t for our mutual birthday, Mullin said, you wouldn’t have hired me?

That, and we were both at Woodstock.

But I dug it, and you didn’t.

I dug the music, but I didn’t like the mud. And I wasn’t into dropping acid. You’re not exactly the administrative type. I was puzzled someone like you even applied.

I needed a job. It was this or back to the blackboard jungle. Kirkland, I crave something new. Maybe I’ll juice up my sex life, sow the few wild oats I have left.

You have Veronica. What more do you want?

What more? – A gorgeous, uninhibited, young dish. With no baggage. Veronica’s a looker, all right, but, man, does she have issues.

She went through a rough divorce.

Plus, her fear of menopause, her father’s death when she was twelve, a never-ending pitched battle with her daughter, wrinkle phobia, weight terror, money challenges, fear of direct sunlight – worst of all, she loves George W.

She’s a gourmet cook, full of vim and vitality, a fine conversationalist, well-informed, and always a twinkle in her eye.

Okay, I’m a scoundrel. But I’m a man. Life is passing me by, damn it. I will not go gently. I will fight against the dying of the light.

T.S. Eliot again?

If I’m no bureaucrat, you’re no literary scholar.

Yeats? You’re always quoting Yeats.

Wrong island.

They were on Waupelani Drive in the southeastern outskirts of town – split level homes, two car garages, piles of soggy leaves under bare-branched maples and oaks.

Do you intend to hire call girls? Kirkland asked.

Hell, no. I’ve never been with a hooker. Have you?

Would you believe Evelyn is the only woman I’ve ever been to bed with?

The only woman? How many men?

Mullin, you’re really cute but don’t get your hopes up.

Kirkland, you’re my secret sharer. I tell you all. But this confession of a monogamous life history is the first you’ve offered in return.

I married my high school sweetheart. We had kids. What’s to confess?

Kirkland stopped in front of a stucco building in a condominium complex with skylights and chimneys. The architecture looked worn and outdated. Its faux-Scandinavian design stood in contrast to the more contemporary gated complexes having sprouted up in the area, bad imitations of New England fishing villages. Happy Valley would never start a trend. Kirkland left the engine running as they talked.

I remember my high school sweetheart, Mullin said. Brooke Bender, a trim, petite, busty strawberry blond with eyes as blue as robins’ eggs. Hayrides, sneaking out, drive-in movies.

Sounds like Evelyn and me back then.

Pure fun. Like animals playing. What happens to that, Kirkland? – The pure fun of it.

It’s just a stage, Mullin. We grow up. I married Evelyn. Being together through thick and thin changes things.

Does it ever! Takes the joy out.

Women would say it adds intimacy. What ever happened to you and trim, busty Brooke?

She and her family moved out of Pottsville … up to Bloomsburg, I believe. I lost track of her.

And you moved on to other playmates.

But never quite the same.

And now maturity has become a challenge for you.

Yeah it has.

They sat in silence a moment, rain streaking the windshield.

Anyway, Mullin said, no women of the night for me. Who wants someone who’s just doing a job? My problem is how to have knockouts-gone-wild attracted to me. How does a man of my ilk get babes?

Work at a school for the visually impaired.

You’ve got a keen wit, Kirkland.

Sign up for a Filipino bride.

Seriously, man!

Okay, seriously. Forget the hayrides and the backseats. Marry Veronica Powell before someone more deserving snatches her up.

Under a quilt in a bedroom of antique furniture and subdued floral décor, Kirkland, propped up by pillows, studied a catalog of model trains. HO gauge was his thing. In flannel pajamas, Evelyn sat beside him engaged in a crossword puzzle. She was mildly plump, appealing, with intelligent often critical gray eyes, eyes that had effectively kept her husband in check for many years. Her light brown hair dropped in waves over her shoulders as she frowned at the brainteaser.

Drat! she said. "Five letters for offline."

Come on, you know that one.

Yes … but do you?

"Askew."

She filled in the blanks. How’d your birthday luncheon go today?

Mullin was quoting authors again, Kirkland said. You were an English major, which writer said something about fighting against the dying light?

You don’t have to be an English major to know that.

"You owe me for askew."

Dylan Thomas.

A silence followed as each pursued their projects.

Mullin wants to seduce younger women, Kirkland said. To recapture the innocent passion of his youth.

Is that so? I must inform Veronica.

I don’t think the hip-hop generation has much to worry about, said Kirkland. When do these kids lose their innocence – about age twelve?

He’s not bad looking, you know. He’s tall, in decent shape, not balding, and he’s a delight on the banjo. Incidentally, will you ask him to play at our Christmas party?

I don’t have to ask. He’ll have it along as always.

With all his offbeat experiences, Evelyn said, he’s fun to talk to, not like most of the stodgy bookworms you hang around with. Did you know he once traveled up the Amazon?

He doesn’t stick with anything.

What’s more, he’s ragged around the edges, needs some trimming up. To some women, that’s quite endearing.

Sounds like you might be a candidate. Kirkland stroked his thinning hair. I’d better not go bald.

I’m hardly a hip-hopper, Evelyn said. "I’ll tell Veronica to be on the alert … Darn! Ten letter word for glowing."

"Iridescent."

I said ten letters.

"There’s only one r in iridescent, dear heart."

Two, sweetie pie.

I’ll wager you dessert and coffee at the Corner Room.

I can already taste that chocolate éclair.

Kirkland sat at a polished desk in a large office decorated with pictures of locomotives. Here and there a few of his prized models were on display. A brakeman’s cap hung behind his desk with an actual B&O switching signal complete with several bullet holes, presumably from rednecks having fun. In a nook stood a conference table and chairs. A large window revealed pine boughs frosted with snow. On the outside sill a male cardinal devoured sunflower seeds that Kirkland had tossed there as part of his morning routine.

The door of the office stood open, revealing June Burkhart, in her late fifties, hair in a bun with pencils sticking out like a geisha. She was hardly alluring, however, as she typed on a keyboard. Mullin strolled past her, bowing as he went.

Madame, he said with an exaggerated French accent.

Monsieur, she answered, grinning mildly but not looking up.

Mullin proceeded into Kirkland’s chamber. It hit me! he said.

After collapsing onto one of two leather chairs in front of the expansive desk, Mullin picked up a model caboose with the words Santa Fe on the side. Idly, he spun its wheels. Kirkland looked on with an expression of suppressed anxiety at seeing one of his cherished possessions being handled with such casual disregard.

What was it exactly that hit you? he asked.

What we talked about in our birthday conversation.

Our duel?

No, man, wild oats. Here’s the scene. I’m perched on a stool having a slice at Brothers Pizza, observing the student masses passing by. Right across the street a guy about our age is taking pictures of a fantastic young woman. She takes off her coat, and she’s wearing a tight, very tight, red sweater. Man! And I say to myself: That’s it!

What do you know about photography?

I minored in it at Kutztown State. Of course, that was years ago. I’ll have to catch up with all this digital stuff, but you have to admit I’m a quick learner. Remember how I crammed for that battery of job interviews you put me through?

He’d had to learn the rules and regulations for undergraduate enrollment – class-adds, deadlines, basic degree requirements, course lists, disciplinary procedures. The details had seemed endless.

And what’s a better hobby than photography? he said. Who’ll think twice if I take it up? He snapped a wheel of the caboose into a vigorous spin.

Do you mind putting the car back? Kirkland said.

You don’t see cabooses any more, do you? Why’s this one yellow? – Aren’t they supposed to be red?

Put it down, please.

With an expression of amused tolerance, Mullin honored his supervisor’s request.

So, photography, Kirkland said. The perfect camouflage for your nefarious intentions.

Those lucky dogs at Playboy. Imagine the poon they get.

With a tissue Kirkland wiped off the model and set it properly back on its small section of track.

And your victims? he said, I mean your subjects – from where do you intend to recruit them?

Have you checked out this campus lately? Damn!

Mullin, I seldom pull rank on you. But this discussion makes me a little nervous. We’d better avoid such conversations in this office. If you’re really serious, you’ll have to keep your extracurricular activities completely separate from your work here. Do you read me?

Crummy as this job is, I don’t intend to risk it. I need it. At my age, I don’t have the guts to light out for the territories like Huck. I just want to have a little fun.

I don’t endorse your idea. That’s my official position, and just to cover my tail I’ll make a passing note of it in my daily log. If you get into trouble, don’t expect me to go down with you.

Chapter 2

April, 2003

While others practiced on the softball field, Mullin took pictures of a caterpillar munching on a new crabapple leaf. Using a macro lens, he leaned close. Above the number 13 on the back of his uniform were the initials T.D.

A mitt under his arm, Kirkland approached, CAPTAIN on his jersey above the numeral 1. Perhaps, he said, we can interrupt the budding artist to start our game?

Mullin pressed a button, setting off an electronic sound. I’m beginning to grasp this amazing toy.

It was a Nikon, seven megapixel, three lenses, flash, filters, bag, and lithium battery, having cost Mullin about two grand. The best part was the complete privacy the system provided. With Adobe software, he could develop his shots, enhance the images in numerous ways, and make prints, all in the seclusion of his own home, no processing labs involved. Perfect. He placed the revered object into a camera bag. They walked toward the field where other players were warming up.

I have a special work assignment for you, Kirkland said.

Not another statistical report.

The coach’s wife came to see me. Their grandson is having problems finding his academic way. I recommended he see you. You have a definite knack with lost souls.

That’s because I am one.

The coach wants to handle it from the top. So I’m to keep an eye on things, as the free safety, so to speak. I checked with your secretary, scheduled the kid for ten tomorrow.

Mullin set the camera