Benefit of the Doubt

By Geoffrey A. Feller

What happens when eight young singles cope with Boston-area rent by living together in one big house? Simon Herbst finds out. He shares a bathroom with a woman who’s sexier than his girlfriend; gets caught up in disputes between his housemates; and finds ways to help or betray people who trust him. Near the end of the 1980s, Simon participates in a drug deal, falls in and out of love, and marches on Washington, describing it all with the dry wit of an intellectual college dropout. Simon is an older brother to Generation X, a nephew to the Flower Children, and an original Slacker. The woman of Simon’s dreams has enough ambition for the both of them... but does she like men?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoffrey A. Feller
• Release date: Oct 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301887347

Geoffrey A. Feller

I was born fifty-seven years ago in the Bible belt but grew up in a Massachusetts college town. I am married and my wife and I have moved frequently since we met. We've lived in Minnesota, Massachusetts, and New Mexico, as well as a brief residency in Berlin, Germany. I have worked peripherally in health care, banking, and insurance. In addition to writing, I have done a bit of amateur acting and comedy performances. I am afraid of heights but public speaking doesn't scare me. My wife and I live in Albuquerque with our chihuahua.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1:

THE DECLINE OF COMMUNISM

I had been looking forward to 1988. It was going to be the third year I would live through that had double numbers, although I could barely remember 1966. A couple of personal changes designed to improve myself had come about during the first half of that year. I’d quit drinking and left my stressful job by late spring, turning twenty-five in between.

So, for the silver anniversary of my birth, I had been hoping for a new life. My grandiose ambition had only set me up for disappointment. At the beginning of June, I was feeling restless and impatient.

That happened to coincide with the end of my first three years living at 20 Fletcher Street in Brookline, Massachusetts. I was waiting for my girlfriend to show up one evening that week, sitting at my desk in my room in a reflective mood.

Three years of communal living, I reminded myself. Three years of something I had once claimed I’d never do. Of course, after so much time, I was taking it all for granted. I had seven housemates, all strangers at first. Some eventually had become good friends.

So what was my problem, then? I had a cheap rented room in a comfortable old shoe of a house, neighbors who were friends, a fun job that allowed me to talk about movies eight hours a day, and an adoring girlfriend.

Her name was Lisa Cafferty, a nursing school student. She was twenty years old and still lived with her parents. Despite that drawback, we were still having sex with reasonable frequency.

What more could a slacker want?

Patience, Simon, I thought. Living here wasn’t your idea but look how well it turned out.

Smiling, I gazed through the screen window over my desk. There was a light, warm and sweet breeze coming in. I stroked my full beard; recently trimmed short the way Lisa preferred it.

I was paying $250 a month to live here, very reasonable for metro Boston. There was no lease; tenancy at will was the rule at 20 Fletcher. The landlord didn’t care how we divided the amount, just as long as a check for $2,000 reached him every thirty days or so.

What we were paying to live in was a three-storied clapboard house with peeling brown paint and other indications of general shabbiness. There was a crawlspace instead of an attic but we had a big basement full of clutter, some left behind by previous tenants.

I didn’t know much about the history of the house although it had obviously started out as a single-family dwelling long ago. The place was nearly a hundred years old, or so I had been told.

There was a coal bin in the basement although the chute was long gone. We could still find lumps of coal scattered amid the cardboard boxes and ruined furniture down there. The house had antiquated electric wiring not equal to the task of powering the various electronic devices common to the late-twentieth century home, even one populated by the underemployed. Power strips and a few hundred feet of extension cords supplemented the few wall sockets we had.

The house seemed big enough to have originally been owned by some wealthy family. There was a wide staircase that led to the second story and a rear stairwell going from the kitchen all the way to the third floor. The servants’ quarters had probably been located up there.

The interior of the house was dark and musty. The wooden floors were thoroughly scuffed and the plaster walls were fractured with hairline cracks beneath several layers of paint. The furniture was threadbare and haphazardly arranged in the living room. Only a couple of chairs around the dining room table had come from the same set. The kitchen had a gas stove coated in white enamel paint and three full-sized refrigerators. An open pantry connected the kitchen and dining room. The parlor was across the entry hall from the dining room.

According to our most senior housemate, 20 Fletcher Street had ceased to be an owner-occupied house by the late sixties. I imagined a band of hippies had been the first tenants, probably a dozen of more crowding into this address. They had possibly lived two or three to a room with more spilling over to the sofas in the parlor, their total number fluctuating over time. I knew that such living conditions had been commonplace in greater Boston, overgrown college town that it is.

I gathered that earnest young radicals practicing literal communism had filled those households. The conventions of that counterculture such as shared meals, elaborate chore schedules and a dogmatic disdain for personal property had long since vanished from our house. Now it was neither commune nor rooming house. The balance suited me just fine; I was glad that my housemates were more than just names on the mailbox to me.

We usually saw each other in the kitchen around mealtime, vying for an open gas burner or the oven. While most of us had our own television sets up in our rooms, there was a big color console in the parlor. There, we could relax on the sofa and easy chairs, watching favorite programs in groups.

Each of us used our rooms as a place for refuge and privacy at times, decorating them like kids asserting their individuality. My room was large, over fifteen feet between my desk and the closet. The walls were covered with movie posters, maps and various portraits cut out of magazines. There were two windows, one facing front and the other above the driveway that led to a parking lot behind the house. I slept on a futon lying right on the floor under the side window.

I had an unfinished oak desk, a bookcase to the left of it and my own color TV resting on a wheeled cart to the right. There was an overhead light and I had brought in two lamps, one on my desk and the other fastened to my night table.

Gene Patterson lived one door down from me. He had been renting that same room since 1978, right after he graduated from college. After all that time, Gene was our resident historian and knew how everything worked. He was usually the one to call the landlord when repairs were needed. After spending so many years here, the reclusive dean of housemates had become set in his ways, presenting occasional obstacles for the rest of us.

Across the hall from Gene was Sally Landry, one of my two closest friends in the house. By then, she’d been living at 20 Fletcher for two years. Our most recent addition, a bike messenger named Melanie Dvorak, rented the room across from mine. The remaining bedrooms were upstairs. Nick Hingle lived right above me. Having moved into the house within a few months of each other, Nick and I were known as the Class of ’85.

His next-door neighbor was Kelly Strudwick, our phantom housemate. Over the past seven months her social contact with the rest of us had dwindled away to nothing. Kelly might as well have been renting her room for storage. Penny Dinsmore, our second-most senior housemate after six years, had ironically chosen to remain in the smallest bedroom. This imbalance in floor space was to the advantage of the adjoining room. It sprawled above a third of Sally’s room and all of Melanie’s. For the past five months, Bill Conway, a guitar player with no visible means of support, had rented this huge room.

My rumination was interrupted when Nick decided to pay me a visit. I invited him to sit in my reading chair while I took a round metal cookie container from my lower desk drawer. I lifted the lid and smiled over to Nick. He could almost have been my classmate in a school context, since we were nearly the same age. Nick was short and stocky with bright red hair and thick eyeglasses. He had a clerical job at Boston University, his alma mater, and was still wearing his dress shirt although he’d shed his jacket and loosened his tie.

I turned over the lid and sneered at the picture of Nancy Reagan that I had taped to the underside. Not even a crumb remained of the butter cookies by then; the space was now occupied by my stash. I had about an eighth of an ounce of marijuana wrapped tightly in a zip-lock sandwich bag. I also had a butane lighter, a ceramic pipe, a packet of rolling papers and a few gold screens for the pipe bowl.

I carried my desk chair over to the night table where I put down the cookie tin. Nick watched me unroll the sandwich bag. I sprinkled a large pinch of the dried leaves into the pipe. This was crummy weed, grown somewhere in the wilderness of western Massachusetts. I’d bought it from a high school friend we knew as Pothead Pete. I dreaded feeling the harsh smoke in my throat and lungs but still craved the high.

I managed to hold the toxic fumes in long enough for the active ingredients to filter into my bloodstream. Finally, I let out a hard, scorching cough. I had passed the pipe to Nick before my respiratory system’s rebellion. Through watering eyes, I stared at my upstairs neighbor. I didn’t like to complain but the first inklings of the high overwhelmed my higher sense of civility.

So what’s taking so long with this goddamn sinse? I asked, taking back the pipe.

Glad you asked, Nick grinned as I took a second drag.

Oh? I asked through a smaller cough.

Whatcha doing Saturday?

"Maybe you can tell me."

Okay, Nick nodded. I called the dude up this morning from the office. Had to talk in code, y’know?

Sure.

Anyway, it’s supposed to be coming in Friday night. So Saturday morning, I’m going over to his place…

Why not Friday night? I asked, half-seriously.

Gimme a break, Herbst, Nick grimaced.

I chuckled and rocked back slightly in my chair, crossing my legs.

Still, my friend continued, I know you’re as anxious as I am to get at this shit. I really appreciate you guys trusting me with the money all this time.

Hey, I’ve known you for quite a while now, remember. And so has Sally.

And I wouldn’t want to cross Melanie, Nick remarked wryly.

I smiled in agreement and closed my eyes, savoring the anticipation of the new weed. Nick had first told me about it three weeks earlier, something from the Pacific Northwest supposedly grown in a section of ancient forest. It had a name to evoke that image: Sasquatch Sinsemilla, also suggesting (as Nick put it) a really big high.

Maybe we should order a pizza tonight to celebrate, Nick suggested as he struggled to un-knot his tie.

Great idea, I nodded. I only wish I could hang around to enjoy it.

Oh, yeah? Why can’t you?

Dinner with Lisa.

Mmn. Well, it’s probably bad luck to celebrate before the weed actually gets here.

Yeah…

But you’ll be around Saturday, I hope.

Bet your ass I will. Hey, suppose it’d be cool if I waited in the car while you make the transaction?

Why?

"Well… I’m not worried about you ripping me off. But unless you know these guys pretty well, it might be a good idea to have someone else come along. Just in case, that’s all."

Maybe you’re right, Simon. Not that I don’t trust the dudes involved but they aren’t my brothers, either. Who knows what could happen?

Didn’t mean to make you paranoid.

No, no…

Well how ’bout this? You’re expected to come alone, right?

Right.

Dealers don’t like to see unfamiliar faces, right? So there’s no sense in having me ruin it by showing up, too, even if I just stayed in your car. But I’ve got a better idea.

Yeah, what?

"Well, I’d have to run this by Melanie, of course, but what if we follow you in her car and just watch from a distance, see that you come back out after a reasonable amount of time?"

Nice plan. But if there’s some rip-off going down, I don’t know if having someone as big as you or as tough as Melanie would be enough to save my ass, especially if they’ve got guns.

I wasn’t thinking of providing you with muscle so much as a fast way to call the cops if you’re in trouble. Of course, if this contact of yours turns out to be a narc, we’re all fucked, anyway. Still, it might be damned funny to send a couple of uniforms in to complicate matters. Go out with a blast.

We shared a hearty laugh. Then, after removing his glasses to rub his eyelids, Nick shook his head.

Nah, man. I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be cool. But if you think you’ll get a kick out of the adventure, be my guest.

Yeah, I insisted, my enthusiasm bolstered by the feeble yet genuine buzz. We’d be reverse narcs, anti-DEA. I bet Melanie would go for that.

My girlfriend was supposed to pick me up at six o’clock, which didn’t give me much time to come down from the high. Lisa didn’t approve of my habit and I rarely lit up in front of her. That was one reason I didn’t mind too much that she lived with her parents.

I decided to wait for her on the front porch, sitting on the top step. I’d changed into more comfortable clothes for the warm evening, a gray and black pullover shirt and a pair of tan shorts. I had another small bottle of plain seltzer water at my side.

The porch was in dire need of a new paint job, especially the steps. Several years of heavy traffic had worn away the reddish brown paint, exposing splintering boards to the weather. The porch as a whole was sagging slightly from the rest of the house. I figured the whole thing might collapse within the next decade.

One of the bad things about living here was that it reminded me of the house I grew up in. Among other defects, a colony of carpenter ants had shared the place with our family, burrowing into the old wooden beams behind the plaster. Wrecker ants would have been a better name for them.

I gazed out over the front yard. The grass needed mowing and the hedge separating the lawn from the sidewalk was unruly, not having been trimmed since the previous fall. There was a crab apple tree over to my left. In a few months, the ripe fruit would be dropping into the grass. The apples were sour and virtually inedible except to the hornets that would start to buzz around the fruit once it began to rot.

Lisa was driving her mother’s Oldsmobile as usual. I had managed to finish the seltzer before she pulled into the driveway. With subdued enthusiasm, I stood up, waved, and strolled across the lawn to the passenger door.

I was shamed by Lisa’s greeting. She hugged me tightly over the gearshift and gave me a long, deep kiss. I hoped this meant she could spend the night with me after we got back from dinner. But I figured I should let it be Lisa’s suggestion so I didn’t bring it up.

At five-eight, Lisa was on the tall side for a woman. She had long, auburn hair, green eyes and wore glasses with big lenses. Her glasses were what I had first noticed about her, even before those nice, full breasts. I had always been attracted to women with glasses.

Hey, honey, I said after we leaned back into our respective seats, could you turn down the air conditioning?

Oh, sure.

My legs are getting cold, I smiled, watching Lisa adjust the climate control.

Gee, I’m sorry.

Lisa reached over and rubbed my closer thigh for a moment, creating friction with my goose bumps. Then she massaged my knee until both hands were needed to make a sharp turn. I returned the favor by stroking her shin, bare under a light skirt. She had evidently shaved recently.

The car radio was tuned to the local, so-called alternative station. I knew this was for my benefit; Lisa didn’t normally listen to this frequency.

So, where do you want to eat?

Uh, I murmured, I forgot to choose a place.

Got stoned and forgot, is that it?

Yeah.

Why deny it? I was sure she could still smell the stuff on my breath if not in my hair.

Bad boy, Lisa smiled, patting the back of my hand.

You’re being an awfully good sport about it. Thanks.

I just want to be with you, Lisa replied, turning my hand over to run her fingertips over the palm. Besides, you aren’t being too silly… yet.

I’ve been coming down for a while now.

Well, don’t worry. I chose a restaurant myself in case you forgot. Kind of a back-up plan.

Good.

It’s...

Wait, I interrupted. Don’t tell me, show me.

Okay.

Unless you mean dinner with your folks.

No! Simon, why d’you get so uptight about my parents?

Because they’re parents.

C’mon, they like you.

Yeah…

I shook my head and stared out the windshield. Was I trying to pick a fight unconsciously? Damn me if I was. Here Lisa was trying, really trying. Like when I had actually brought her flowers. WFNX on the radio was easy enough. Tolerating my slightly blurred consciousness was something else. Lisa had usually pouted when I was stoned in her company. At first, this displeasure made me feel guilty. But after a few months, I began to sulk right back. It took all the fun out of getting baked.

I’ll have coffee with dinner, I declared, looking back at Lisa with a little smile. It’ll help straighten me out.

Don’t worry, it’s really not getting on my nerves.

But I love coffee anyway.

Like that’s news to me, Lisa grinned.

I could certainly appreciate the way my girlfriend encouraged some of my more healthy habits. Along with forsaking alcohol, I had started going back to the weight room after Lisa made a big deal over my genetic muscularity. Stroking my narcissism was an effective strategy to get me to do anything.

Lisa guided the car up north of Boston, taking us beyond the more thickly settled ring of urban sprawl. I realized we were on our way to the North Shore. We were already engaged in innocuous talk, nothing controversial to disrupt the mood.

She had chosen a restaurant by the shores of Cape Ann. We had never been to it before but I suddenly developed an appetite for seafood. Not that I have ever been much of a picky eater; I have the fat cells to prove it.

The restaurant had tables out on a deck overlooking the beach. We were seated at a table alongside the wooden railing and had a light, salt-scented breeze coming over us from the sea.

I’m sorry I’ve been such a pain in the ass to you lately, I said after we’d set aside the menus.

You haven’t been that bad.

You’ve been awfully patient, I insisted, taking her hand. Why d’you put up with me, anyway?

Let’s order first, Lisa said, darting her eyes towards the waiter at my shoulder.

I felt myself blushing and listened to Lisa give her order. I had to look back at the menu to recall my own choices.

"You know how I love fish," I smirked after the waiter had moved off.

Lisa tried to kick me under the table but missed, tapping the leg of my chair instead.

What? I grinned. We’re at a seafood restaurant. Fish, oysters…

Shut up!

"Now I’m being a pain in the ass, huh?"

Not the way you meant it a minute ago.

Right, I murmured, sipping at my glass of water.

Weeks after quitting my job at the hospital, I felt like I had lied to Lisa. I had been getting tired of her very presence in my life and hopefully pinned the blame on my stressful line of work. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Lisa quite what I was feeling, thinking it might all be temporary, anyway. I hoped it was a passing phase hidden behind vague remarks about having more energy for the relationship once I’d surrendered my ward keys. But it hadn’t worked out that way.

Ever regret leaving the hospital? Lisa asked, startling me with what seemed like telepathy.

No.

Well, that’s good.

You sure?

What makes you think I wouldn’t be sure?

What you’re in school for.

"Simon, we’ve been over all this. It’s got nothing to do with what you want to do with your life."

"Whatever that is," I snorted.

You said it, I didn’t.

Hmpf.

C’mon, honey, Lisa sighed. I’m on your side here. You know that.

Yeah.

"It’s not like you’re over thirty yet. You’re permitted to take some time to figure things out. Who knows if nursing is going to be my lifetime career?"

Uh-huh, I know.

What’s going on with you? Why do you keep looking for a fight with me?

I’m not looking for a fight, I sighed, picking up her hand to kiss it.

It’s like you expect me to disapprove of what you’re doing, Lisa replied, tugging at my hand. There’s nothing about you that I don’t like, except what I’ve already mentioned.

The waiter’s return suspended our conversation momentarily and I took the opportunity to steer it in another direction.

So, can you stay the night?

Yeah, Lisa said with a faint leer.

Now I’d ruined Lisa’s surprise but it was worth doing to avoid a fight. I wasn’t in the mood to hear her call me unambitious. When we’d first met, I had no definite plan to quit being a mental health counselor. I’d used to tell Lisa about my vague notion to return to school, maybe as a psychology major. Maybe aim to be a psychologist or perhaps a licensed social worker.

But I’d jumped off this potential career track as if I’d seen a train coming towards me. Leaped off a railroad bridge over a gorge and hadn’t hit the ground yet.

Drifting, I muttered as we walked back to Mrs. Cafferty’s car an hour or so later.

What?

That’s what you said about me before: I’m just drifting.

Will you stop beating up on yourself? I’m beginning to think you’re doing it so I’ll feel sorry for you.

She hugged my arm against her soft left breast and briefly rested her head on my shoulder. I smiled and decided that Lisa was right.

Now cheer up, Lisa added as we parted at the trunk of the car. You’re gonna get laid tonight, Simon Herbst.

I know, I grinned, amused by her unusually bold talk. You’re a lover, not a fighter…

Would her parents really approve of such wanton behavior? I wondered as I watched Lisa unlock the passenger door. They must obviously know this car’s going to be parked somewhere other than the family driveway tonight.

CHAPTER 2:

HELLO, NEIGHBOR

It was dark out by the time we reached Fletcher Street. Lisa had let me dive back after I had bought her some wine coolers; she was still underage. I turned the car into the driveway below my window and drove it behind the house. Gravel rattled under the tires and the headlights showed me Penny’s Ford and Gene’s Plymouth parked side by side. Farther back from the house was Melanie’s dark green Volkswagen Beetle. Since Melanie usually got around on her mountain bike, it was not conclusive proof that she was home. I was still eager to discuss my stakeout scheme with her sometime that evening. It so happened that Nick’s silver Honda Civic was missing. No one else at 20 Fletcher owned a car.

Nick was usually parked next to Melanie so I quickly turned the wheel to claim this spot for myself. In the process, I caught a glimpse of a bumper sticker on the green bug. It boldly proclaimed: KEEP YOUR LAWS OFF MY BODY.

We made our way inside, Lisa clutching my right arm as we walked. I peered over at the living room windows, noticing the flickering light from the TV screen. I wondered who was watching the tube. I led Lisa inside through the back steps and on into the kitchen.

As soon as we’d closed the door behind us, Lisa began trying to wrestle with me, giggling and shoving even as she put down the paper bag from the liquor store. I wrapped my arms around her waist and lifted Lisa off the floor, much to her delight. She had once claimed that none of her previous boyfriends had been strong enough to pick her up; I had always wondered if that was an exaggeration for my benefit. Lisa was heavy; although she would never disclose a specific bathroom scale number to me, based on my know capabilities in other circumstances I gathered that she weighed safely under two hundred pounds.

I staggered backward over the linoleum and bumped my ass against the edge of the stove. Lisa started kissing me as I slowly lowered her.

Whoops!

I turned around to see my housemate Sally emerging at the bottom of the rear stairwell at the other end of the kitchen. Sally was a year or so older than me, rather short and skinny with straight, wheat-blonde hair. Sally’s cheekbones were very high and she had big, blue eyes that seemed out of proportion with her nose and mouth.

Looks like you two are having fun, Sally said, smiling shyly.

Yeah, I said, hugging Lisa close.

Don’t mind me, Sally went on, approaching one of the refrigerators. Just grabbing a slice of watermelon. I’ll be out of your way in a jiffy.

Take your time, I responded. This is a common area. We’re the ones who ought to be adjusting our behavior…

How’ve you been, Sally? Lisa asked, watching my housemate close the refrigerator door.

Oh, okay, Sally replied, holding up a watermelon slice.

She and Lisa were friendly with each other and they struck up a pleasant conversation. I excused myself, saying I was going to store the wine coolers and remove my contact lenses.

I’ll be up in a minute, Lisa replied.

Take your time, I insisted. We have all night.

I went to the front staircase, pausing to look into the living room to see if Melanie was the one watching TV. It turned out to be Gene staring at a baseball game from one of the easy chairs. He had a long, craggy face, a big nose and bushy eyebrows.

Red Sox losing again? I asked with insincere curiosity.

Down by six runs, Gene replied.

Which inning?

Fifth. Is that Lisa’s car out there?

Yeah, it is.

Just asking, Gene said blandly, keeping his eye on the tube.

It’ll be there overnight, as I’m sure you want to know. It’s not blocking your car, either.

That’s fine, Gene nodded.

I was momentarily embarrassed by my own impatience with our Fletcher Street fixture but stopped short of apologizing. I trudged upstairs and listened for signs of life on the second floor. I could hear the Sinéad O’Connor album The Lion and the Cobra playing as I reached the landing. With Gene, Sally, and myself accounted for, there was only one source left for the music.

Between Melanie’s room and mine was a quasi-lounge with a small round table, a shapeless beanbag chair and a low Ottoman with plaid fabric upholstery. There was also the kind of midget refrigerator seen in college dormitories over in one corner. Those of us living on the second story liked to stash drinks and snacks in it rather than go all the way down to the kitchen. The third-floor residents also had a refrigerator like ours.

I put the wine coolers in next to someone’s six-pack of imported beer. From my crouching posture, I gazed over at Melanie’s door. It was slightly ajar, making it plain that she was not trying to avoid visitors. I strolled over and rapped lightly on the doorframe.

Hey, Simon! Melanie smiled when she saw me. Come in.

How’re you doing? I asked, following her farther into the room.

Fine.

Fine is right, I thought.

I was trying not to stare but it wasn’t easy. Her elfin stature excited me; I’ve always been fascinated by women outside the average range on the height chart.

And Melanie was more than simply petite. I already knew that she supplemented her considerable on-the-job exercise by lifting weights. Her tanned, athletic form was obvious in a green tank top and khaki shorts. She had a small bust, streamlined hips and bulging, muscular thighs. Melanie didn’t shave her legs; wispy brown hair sprouted up from just below her knees to her ankles. She was wearing gray canvas tennis shoes without socks.

I thought it might be prudent to look at my housemate from the neck up, although I liked what I saw above her broad shoulders as well. Melanie had a heart-shaped face with high, rounded cheekbones, an upturned little nose, and prominent chin. Her eyes were big and bright with violet-blue irises. Melanie’s hair was dark brown, trimmed short to expose her ears.

So, what’s going on, Simon? Melanie asked, sitting down on her bed, a futon on a platform.

I’m going to have to get straight to the point, I began. Lisa’s downstairs and she’ll be coming up any second. Did you talk to Nick today?

No, Melanie replied. Why don’t you have a seat?

Okay, I agreed, pulling out her desk chair. Anyway, Nick’s supposed to be buying the Sasquatch Sinse on Saturday.

Wow, Melanie grimaced. About fucking time!

Yeah, that’s what I told Nick. But anyway, I have a proposal.

What’s that? Melanie asked, starting to unlace one of her tennis shoes.

Well, I was thinking we might go on a stakeout while Nick’s buying the dope, I said, watching her slip off the first shoe.

Stakeout? Melanie reacted, looking up as she untied the other sneaker.

Yeah, you see, Nick doesn’t know these guys real well, and I told him he might need some backup. Since he’s expected to come alone, it wouldn’t work too well if I went upstairs with him. So I suggested that we follow in your car since I don’t have one and just park outside the building, keeping an eye on the clock.

And then what?

Melanie raised her legs several inches from the floor and began to kick her feet slowly up and down, airing them out. She kicked the reply right out of my short-term memory with those cute little feet.

Oh, uh, I mumbled, quickly looking around the room.

Unlike Lisa’s bedroom with its frilly blanket on a four-poster bed, stuffed animals scattered around it, Melanie’s room was sparsely decorated. There was an old steamer trunk lying on a light blue rug next to her mountain bike. The two-wheeler was leaning against the wall opposite her desk and stereo system.

Just then, I was staring up at the poster above her desk. It depicted a man and a woman riding up a mountain pass with a bicycle company logo in the lower left corner.

I don’t think anything’s really going to happen, I blurted as soon as my composure began to return. The real story is that I can’t wait to see that sinse.

I’m game, Melanie smiled, crossing her legs. But I hope Nick’s not too worried about the deal.

Nah. This was all my idea.

It sounds like more fun than hanging around here waiting for Nick to come home with it, Melanie nodded, reaching for a can of beer on her desk.

Besides, I’ve never been inside your Beetle, I remarked after a pause.

That’s right, you haven’t, Melanie nodded. Well, all the more reason.

I heard a floorboard squeak out in the hall and guessed that Lisa was about to find me. With a slight nod to Melanie, I got up from the chair.

Simon?

In here, sweetie, I responded.

Lisa met me at Melanie’s doorway. She put her index fingers through my belt loops, the ones on either side of my zipper, and leaned past me to say hello to Melanie. A moment later, she was leading me across the hall.

Wait, I said. I still need to take out my contacts.

Oh, okay, Lisa said, punctuating it with a kiss.

Get yourself a wine cooler. They’re in the hall fridge.

The next time I saw Lisa, it was through my glasses and she was naked, lying on her side across my bed. The only light on in my room was my bedside reading lamp, which Lisa had turned towards the wall. Her glasses were already resting on the night table.

Put some music on, huh? Lisa asked, squinting at me.

Sure, I replied, closing the door.

I started to undress on the way to the tape player. I chose The Psychedelic Furs from my shoebox full of cassettes and tossed away my shirt as the first song began to play.

C’mere, honey, Lisa said, holding out her arms.

We started kissing softly. I rolled on top of Lisa, feeling her full breasts give under my hairy chest. Her long nipples were already rigid, poking my skin and driving me wild.

Our kisses grew more intense as Lisa caressed my back and I ran my fingers through her silky hair. Lisa wrapped her legs around my hips while I started to lick behind her right ear. The foreplay was shorter than usual.

I wish you’d been the one, Lisa whispered as I began to penetrate her wet, inviting vagina.

The one what? I asked hoarsely.

The one who took my virginity, Lisa gasped.

What a responsibility that would have been, I thought.

But it wasn’t how Lisa deserved to hear me put it. If I couldn’t say anything more romantic, I’d just keep it to an appreciative moan. I was certainly feeling very good as I stroked deep into Lisa, dipping my head down to kiss her every few seconds until each of us came.

So, what were you talking about with Melanie? my girlfriend asked as I cuddled her from behind.

Drugs, I admitted bluntly, figuring that an evasive reply would have only invited jealousy.

I think that girl is a bad influence on you.

H’mm, really?

"Really."

What about Sally? You like her and she gets high with me.

That’s different, Lisa replied. She’s shy and sweet…

And you feel like you can trust me with Sally, I laughed.

What? Lisa exclaimed, turning in my embrace so that she could look me in the eyes. "You’ve got to be kidding!"

So you aren’t jealous?

That Melanie’s obviously a lesbian.

Oh, ‘obviously’, I echoed through a sarcastic scowl.

"Just look at her, honey. She doesn’t shave anywhere. Ever notice her fingernails, how short they are? You know what that means, don’t you?"

I started laughing, somewhat nervously. This was reminding me of a discussion I’d had with Nick shortly after Melanie’s housemate interview. I was taking the same side of the debate now.

So maybe she bites her nails, I began. You judge way too much on appearances.

"I do not!"

"All you know is that Melanie’s unconventional and she’s a feminist. She doesn’t wear dresses and she says ‘fuck’ out loud. That spells lesbian to you. I wish you weren’t so superficial about it. Melanie is getting to be a good friend of mine."

Well?

Well, what?

Haven’t you ever asked her? She’s supposed to be a good friend of yours, right? But you haven’t asked.

No, I haven’t, I frowned, turning away from Lisa. How d’you bring up a thing like that?

Just say: ‘My girlfriend thinks you’re a dyke on a bike.’

That’s not funny, Lisa.

Hey… Lisa replied, touching my shoulder.

I kept quiet for a moment, not really wanting to pursue the matter in case I’d say something more to hurt Lisa’s feelings. A few options along those lines came to mind but I resisted them all.

Hey, I’m sorry.

Besides, if Lisa was convinced Melanie was gay, so much the better. It would be easier to hang out with her if my girlfriend was suspicious of us. What’s more, Lisa was right. Why hadn’t I asked? There had to be a respectful way to do it.

Lisa began to kiss the nape of my neck. Feigning disinterest, I drew my knees up towards my stomach. Another moment and I’d grudgingly reach behind me to caress Lisa wherever I could touch her.

I imagined how I could draw Melanie out. I could say: Y’know sometimes people think I’m gay. I guess it’s because I’m not aggressive and I don’t like sports. I also like to think it’s because people think I’m too nice to be straight. Then Melanie might say: Yeah, I know what you mean…

But wait, I warned myself. Melanie’s very intelligent. She’d know what I was up to. "Of course I’m a lesbian and I can tell you’re absolutely delighted to hear it!"

But then again, if she was a hardcore political lesbian, Melanie wouldn’t want to live among men. Still, not being a separatist doesn’t mean she’s straight. It’s true, I’ll never know unless I ask.

All right, I forgive you, I muttered to Lisa.

Casting my arm behind me, I managed to touch her big ass. I squeezed the abundant, pliant flesh and started to get excited again.

C’mere, Lisa whispered, pulling at my shoulder.

I didn’t resist.

We had started too early to fall asleep easily, even after our second round of orgasms. I got up to flip the tape and gazed wistfully at the bottom drawer of my desk. Not tonight, I had to remind myself. But it was only that crummy Franklin County weed, anyway.

So you don’t like Melanie, I said as the music began to play again. Who else in this house don’t you like?

I didn’t say I don’t like her, Lisa insisted, sitting up and sipping at one of the wine coolers. We don’t seem to have anything in common, that’s all.

As far as you know, I smiled, crouching next to her.

Well, forgive me if I sound shallow but I don’t have anything else to go on except her appearance.

Fair enough. You weren’t so crazy about Sally at first.

That’s not true but I don’t feel like arguing, Lisa said, then touched my shoulder with the cool glass bottle. "Tell you what, there’s one of your housemates who really does give me the creeps."

Who?

Gene.

I see, I nodded, lying back down.

Are you surprised? Lisa asked, putting the bottle up on my night table.

"Not at all. He is kind of weird."

Well, you said he’s been here for a long time, Lisa said, nuzzling my collarbone.

What were you doing ten years ago?

"Oh, my God! I was in grade school!"

Junior high for me.

What’s his room like? I’ve never seen the inside of it.

I haven’t seen it very often, myself. But it’s full of junk as you might guess. Someone so set in his ways is bound to be a packrat.

Reminds me of somebody I could mention, Lisa giggled.

I couldn’t even pretend to be offended by her observation. I kissed Lisa on the temple and went on with my description.

Stacks of magazines…

What kind?

Several. Lots of technical journals having to do with electronics and stuff like that. Books, too.

Computer programming?

I don’t think so. Somehow, I get the impression that Gene’s like, one generation behind the cutting edge. I think he’s kind of stuck in that slide rule age, so to speak. I guess Gene’s old enough to remember the vacuum tube age of bulky computers.

Lisa laughed.

I’m not kidding! I insisted. They were still working with punch cards when he was in college.

Maybe he’s a pervert, Lisa said after a moment. You think so?

Depends on what you call perverted, I began cautiously. But there are other kinds of magazines in his room.

Girly magazines?

Uh, ‘girly’ is too benign a description for what he’s got in there, I said, pointing at the wall.

Uh-oh.

It’s nothing he’d be arrested for. Just typical hardcore sleaze.

And you don’t have anything like that hidden here in your messy room?

No I don’t. I prefer to use my imagination, really. When I was a kid, my brother and I actually preferred the relatively tame skin magazines.

"All