The Virgin, Viv

By Jon Michael Miller

Three people, strangers, meet. On the surface they have little in common, but they will transform each other’s lives. Pete Vogelsong, 38, breaking from a cult, returns to his old college to start a new career. Natalie Neff, 36, takes a menial job on her way back from horrendous grief. Then there is Vivien McBride, 22, who masks her pain from a past love affair in flamboyant promiscuity.

In a time before laptops and cellphones, before H.I.V. and the War on Terror, three strangers meet, wrangle and grow. Thanks to Miller’s careful hand, we share their voyage through confession, friction, and resolution, through humor, self-reflection, anguish, mutual concern and personal evolution. We laugh with them, worry about them, wring our hands at their decisions, feel their sorrows and joys, and finally, as their voices rise from the page, we come to know them simply as unforgettable.

What more do we ask from a work of fiction? This novel is supremely satisfying. Indeed, Miller has given us a masterpiece.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Michael Miller
• Release date: Oct 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301274406

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.

Book preview

Three people, strangers, meet. On the surface they have little in common, but they will transform each other’s lives. Pete Vogelsong, 38, breaking from a cult, returns to his old college to start a new career. Natalie Neff, 36, takes a menial job on her way back from horrendous grief. Then there is Vivien McBride, 22, who masks her pain from a past love affair in flamboyant promiscuity.

In a time before laptops and cellphones, before H.I.V. and the War on Terror, three strangers meet, wrangle and grow. Thanks to Miller’s careful hand, we share their voyage through confession, friction, and resolution, through humor, self-reflection, anguish, mutual concern and personal evolution. We laugh with them, worry about them, wring our hands at their decisions, feel their sorrows and joys, and finally, as their voices rise from the page, we come to know them simply as unforgettable.

What more do we ask from a work of fiction? This novel is supremely satisfying. Indeed, Miller has given us a masterpiece.

Though this book explores adult themes—sensual intimacy, exploitation, promiscuity, sexual identity, broken heart syndrome—the quality of the prose and its psychological insight places the work far from the category of erotic fiction. It clearly belongs in the category of fine literary art, right up there with Nabokov, Lawrence, and Henry Miller.

The Virgin,

ViV

Jon Michael Miller

Copyright Jon Michael Miller, 2013

Smashwords Edition

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events and locations in this work are the products of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictionally.

Book design & cover photo by the author.

For Faith

With Special Thanks to

Nora Stackpole,

Tracy Bird,

David Foote,

Larry Hires,

Shae Krispinski,

and

Kim Hackett.

The Virgin, ViV

1

The Pennsylvania State University, January, 1980

God damn the bastard!

Her voice came from the other end of the spacious literature room in Pattee Library, startling Pete from his research. Bent over a far table, the disheveled young woman had her face so close to her notebook she might have been writing with the tip of her nose. Early on a Saturday night, they were the only ones there.

Fuck the dickhead!

She must think she’s alone, Pete thought. Probably didn’t notice me all the way down here. Is she pissed off at some professor who flunked her? Or a boyfriend? He rustled some papers to let her know he was there. She looked up, saw him, and immediately went back to whatever she was doing besides cussing. Her face was vaguely familiar, but from where?

Pete refocused on the essay from which he was taking notes on three-by-five cards. A few minutes passed when he caught the scent of strawberry shampoo—someone standing beside him.

I know you, she said. You teach the class right after mine. When I’m getting my things together, you stroll in carting that old, beat-up satchel.

Her tone was oddly accusatory, as if he should buy a new briefcase. And no wonder he hadn’t recognized her. Her long blond hair was gone, as if it had been hacked off with a paring knife. Jesus! What did she do to herself? She used to be pretty, now looks like an urchin. She had on a loose sweatshirt and baggy army fatigues, her skin pale, eyes tired. But the biggest change—her hair.

He thought he might as well echo her tone. "And you never erase your board."

God-damned rude of me, isn’t it?

She seemed ticked off not only at the world, but at him.

Actually, he said, relenting. I get a kick out of the nervy remarks you write. Like the one about a dangling participle not referring to the male appendage.

She smirked. Speaking of pricks, my prick boyfriend just dumped me. She leaned close to see what Pete was reading. Oh, I dig old Hem. Too bad he blew his brains out. She dropped onto the chair next to him. What do you think old Gerty meant when she told him his stories were un-hangable? Was he writing porn?

You mean Gertrude Stein? She was an art critic. There were a lot of restrictions in those days. Joyce had the same problem. Lawrence, too.

Are you a prof? she asked.

Not yet. I hope to be when I grow up.

Oh. You look old enough to be somebody.

No. I’m not anybody.

You’re good-looking though, like you should be a lumberjack. She extended a pale hand. Vivien McBride. Friends call me Viv.

Pete Vogelsong. She had a firm grip. Viv, eh? Like T.S. Eliot’s wife.

Different spelling. My grammy’s name. My parents wouldn’t know T.S. Eliot from Boris Karloff.

All right, Viv, nice to meet you. Quite a wry jokester, this girl—brash but somewhat amusing, a sudden shift from her anger.

She lay her arm on the table, her cheek on her wrist, and stared up at him, eyes gleaming the liquid brown of iced tea, not as weary now, tiny flecks of green. Strong hands, no rings, no bracelets, no polish on her stubby nails.

Hey, man, she said, it’s Saturday night. What the hell are you doing in this God-forsaken place?

Getting some work done before the gymnastics meet. What’s your excuse?

Me? Oh, I’m killing time instead of myself.

Whoa! Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.

How would you know?

They call this place Happy Valley, don’t they?

Still gazing up at him, she said. "What the hell do they know?"

An impulse hit him. Look, Viv, it seems like you could use a diversion. Why not come along to Rec Hall?

She sat up. I might just do that. I dig those muscle boys in their little shorts.

Dual meets tonight—boys and girls. One for you, one for me.

So you’re not gay, like most of the guys in the department.

He smiled. No, not gay. You?

Hell, no. Do I look gay? Maybe because of my short hair. Damn, I should have thought of that.

"What makes me look gay?" he asked.

Hey, a neat, good-looking older guy majoring in English? No wedding ring?—Makes you kinda suspect.

Well, you can allay your suspicions.

He checked his watch, time to go. They packed up their things, put on their coats and strolled into the cold night. She wore a floppy cap, brim to the side, Chicago thug style, and a long vintage wool coat. From the base of the library steps, a wide snow-lined walkway between bare elms sloped down to the lights of busy College Avenue, three blocks away. They turned right, toward West Halls.

What’s up with this girl? he wondered. She wouldn’t really try to kill herself, would she? Should I call someone? Who would kill themselves over their boyfriend being a prick? And what am I doing getting involved? Gotta watch out for these sudden bright ideas. Does she think I’m trying to pick her up? What am I doing?

Aren’t you a little old to be a grad student? she asked.

I am, indeed.

They were crossing the quad in front of the dorms. I assume, she said, you just missed my implied question.

Weren’t there two questions—my age and my former life?

So you’re ignoring them both.

I’m thirty-eight, if you must know. But I’ll non-confront my former life, if you don’t mind.

I see—deep, huh?

No, more like a tedious chore, like a bed that needs making.

Directly to the thought of bed? You work fast.

Come now. It could have been any analogy—dishes that need washing, a floor that needs sweeping.

But it was a bed, wasn’t it?

Are you majoring in Freudian psychology? he asked.

I did happen to minor in psych, undergrad at good old G-burg College.

G-burg?

"You know, Pickett’s inane charge, all that ancient bullshit? Graduated last spring—summa cum laude, I might boastfully add. I’m only twenty-two."

The distraction of getting free student tickets with their ID cards saved Pete from having to explain his life, which didn’t involve his being a lumberjack. As they settled in the crowded bleachers, he helped her with her coat, which she rolled up and used as a seat cushion.

These benches are hard on the old ass, she said. She pulled her sweatshirt over her head revealing a white, wrinkled, short-sleeved tee shirt and a dainty gold chain with a little cross. It gets damn hot in here. She stuffed the sweatshirt into her bag.

Her bare arm brushed his in his sweater. Was there some intention in that? he wondered. Or is she just accustomed to casual contact, humanity shoving up against itself? Soon her thigh pressed against his. He could have pulled away, but she seemed oblivious to it. It’s nothing, he thought, but not at all unpleasant, natural enough in this crowded place. No need be concerned. Then why am I concerned? Maybe because it’s been a while since I’ve had such simple contact with someone.

Her cheering for LSU drew annoyed stares from those around them. Each time the visitors scored, she leapt up and yelled, Go Tigers! Quite a piece of work, he thought. Though he taught these kids every day, he hadn’t seen any of them in quite this context. He wondered if she was going to extreme lengths to stand out in the crowd.

An actual pressure from her thigh caught his attention, but when he looked at her she seemed engrossed in the action on the rings. He could have edged his leg away, but didn’t.

She turned to him, smiled. The iron cross gives me shivers. How do they do that?

Pete shrugged his ignorance. That she seemed happier made him feel good. It had been months since he’d done anything in the least social. Her provocative personality intrigued him. He also felt the strength and warmth of her leg, thought he should acknowledge it in case she was playing a game with him, so he pushed back against her. She returned the shove, and they looked at each other and grinned, ending any tension he felt. It was contact a brother and sister might have had.

After the meet she said, In exchange for the diversion, let me buy you a beer in the Corner Room.

I’ll join you, but only if I can pay for my own.

Okay. I’m skilled in the art of compromise.

Oh, and I’m not a drinker.

What? She stopped walking, gave him a look in a streetlight. Not even a beer?

Right.

What?—a recovering alcoholic, just out of rehab?

He laughed. No. It’s no big deal. Come on, it’s cold.

They moved on, their collars up. Hey, mister, she said, you’re at Penn State. No-beer is like no-air.

So, he said to get off the subject, you must be quite an expert on the big battle—Devil’s Den, Little Round Top.

Nope. I could care less about a bunch of morons slicing each other to pieces. You’re not a Civil War freak, are you? I’ve had enough of them to last a lifetime.

Just making small talk.

"We found better things to do on that battlefield. Make love, not war—that was our motto. Anyway, that’s what my boyfriend, one of my plethora of exes, used to call me. Don’t you just love the word plethora?"

He called you a Civil War freak?

No, man, Little Round Top.

Oh. Why’d he call you that?

Well, Pete, take a damn guess.

Sorry, I ...

"Let’s just say I’d hardly be a picture in the dictionary next to the word voluptuous."

Oh. I’m sure your ex meant it with affection.

Here’s a character-defining question, she said. How do you like them—big and floppy, or little and firm?

Though they’d seemed to be flirting around, this question blind-sided him. What was she up to with this? Viv—you’re kind of blowing my mind.

Don’t non-confront this one, pal. Which is it?

Are you serious?

Damn straight. Answer up.

Big or little?—that’s the choice you’re giving me?

It is, indeed.

All right, he’d play. As long as I’m about to define my character, I’ll say ... big, little, medium—whatever they are, I like them responsive.

Wow! She gushed. You’d have a field day with me!

Probably would, he thought. A plethora already has, apparently.

"Now let me ask you something," he began, but she cut him off.

"Oh, they say size matters, but there’s such a thing as too big. I prefer substantial but non-threatening."

That wasn’t at all my question, Viv. Here’s what I was going to ask—Are you always so personal when you just meet someone? Or is this frankness only because you’re upset about your current boyfriend problem?

That’s it. Chalk tonight’s performance up to temporary insanity.

A hangout as well as a good restaurant, the Corner Room was one of State College’s premier meeting spots, on the central intersection of College Avenue and Allen Street, directly across from the main entrance of the university. Old-fashioned, high-backed booths lined large windows along both streets, so you could see and be seen by passing throngs. One Rolling Rock and one hot chocolate in front of them, Viv tapped her fingers nervously on the placemat, her nails cut, or gnawed, to their quicks. They seemed to be running out of conversation. Four guys in the next booth, clearly drunk, argued vociferously about sports cars.

Come on, Pete, Viv said, what did you do before you took up grad school? Circumnavigate the globe on a freighter or something?

Or something.

Fuck, getting info outta you is like pulling onions.

He smiled. Onions? I thought it was teeth, pulling teeth.

It’s a trick I came up with to avoid clichés—make a substitution, doesn’t matter what. I could have said pulling sardines. The trick is not to hesitate while trying to come up with the new version, making it seamless, got it?

Hmm, I think so.

My freshman writing teacher got on my case about using worn out phrases, so this is my remedy.

"So, ‘pulling onions,’—cute. Like peeling onions, to get to the layers of meaning underneath."

Brilliant analysis, sir. Feel free to use the technique. I don’t have a patent. But the new version of the cliché doesn’t have to make a bit of sense. If it does, though, you get extra points.

I’ll keep that in mind. You’re quite a trip, Viv McBride. So, with your psych background, maybe you should deduce that my personal bio is a long one I’d rather not share at the moment.

Right. Non-confrontation—like the unmade bed.

One of the young men next to them stood up, faced his buddies. I’m telling you asswipes, he shouted, it’s the Ferrari 308-GTS!

Fuck no, one of his compatriots yelled, Sting Ray.

Corvettes are shit! You retards never even drove a Ferrari. I drove one, know what I’m talking about.

What about the Lotus Esprit? the other of his pals piped up. Has a turbocharge this year. Goes like a cocksucker.

You watch too many James Bond movies. The Brits have no fucking idea how to build a car.

These guys were getting out of hand and no one was doing anything about it. So Pete got up. Two inches taller, he faced the much younger man, who turned toward him.

No doubt about it, Pete said. The Ferrari wins.

The fellow beamed at his friends. There! See? Fucking-A!

Can I join you men for a moment?

Apparently confused, the standing guy said, Okay, I guess so.

Pete gestured for the fellow to sit down, slid in next to him and leaned toward the middle of the table as if having something private to say. The others leaned in too.

Now, I know you men have had a few drinks, but you’re disturbing the other customers. So I’d like you to keep it down and stop with the bad language, okay?

What? the ringleader said. Who are you anyway?

Security. I don’t want to call the cops. They’ll lock you up in the drunk tank for disturbing the peace, underage drinking, who knows what. You don’t want all that trouble, do you? Have to call your parents, pay fines.

You telling us we haf’ta leave?

Not if you keep it down, clean up the language. Think you can manage it?

They all nodded.

Good. And don’t forget to tip the waitress a little extra. You’ve given her a hard time, you know?

Yeah, okay, the Ferrari guy said. Sorry.

No problem.

Pete joined Viv again.

Wow! she said. What did you say to those jerk-offs?

I reasoned with them. Made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.

So that’s it, tough guy? What Mafia family are you affiliated with?

He smiled. You’re a hoot, Viv. Nothing like that.

Well, how come you’re so non-confrontational with everything else but you’re willing to confront those morons?

Someone needed to do it.

Cool! I’m sipping tea with Al Pacino, hiding out in Sicily.

Sometimes a bad marriage feels like that kind of confinement, Viv, and a misguided career does too. So here’s the short version of what you seem to be probing for. Now I’m free of all that, but not sure how to deal with it. I did my undergrad work here, recalled those lovely years, came back, a refuge—Happy Valley.

Okay. She grinned in astonishment. So ... now you’re studying Hemingway. Not about to blow your brains out, too, are you?

Actually, Henry James is my focus.

That old fuddy-duddy?

"I take it you haven’t read Washington Square."

"No. And I always confuse The Turn of the Screw with The Rape of the Lock."

Pete laughed. That’s a cute line, Viv. You should be on the stage—the one that’s ...

... leaving town in five minutes? That joke’s as old as the petrified forest. They chuckled. Pete, you could play Abbot to my Costello.

Or Sonny to your Cher. But she didn’t look a bit like Cher. Much more the Meryl Streep type--not the sharp features, though.

Outside they stood under a streetlight, close enough to kiss. He felt she wanted him to. He was about to; she was so close, smelled faintly of strawberry and beer, but wait … his logic swooped in and stopped him. She could use a hug, he thought, but better not go all the way with this one. Get your brain out of your crotch.

He put his arms around her. She pressed in, did the same to him, clung tightly. They held a moment. He backed off, surrendering temptation to wisdom.

Be careful, Viv. Don’t do anything radical, okay? He smiled into her eyes, which could have been a picture next to the word vulnerability.

She stepped back, lifted her cap and rubbed her ragged head. I’ve already taken care of the radical bit. Death by haircut.

I hope you feel a little better now than in the library.

Yes, you and the boys in little shorts made me forget that prick Darren for a while. Especially your Cosa Nostra act. Now, I think I’ll go back, settle into a hot bubble bath, and induce a nice post-orgasmic slumber.

A lot better than slitting your wrists, kiddo, he was tempted to say. She waited as if expecting him to invite himself along.

Good night, Viv. See you Monday at our classroom.

All right then, Mystery Man. If that’s the way you want it.

She slung her knapsack over her shoulder and sauntered away into the dimness of College Avenue.

2

Whew! Cooling down on the way back to his efficiency in an alley off Sparks Street, Pete reflected. How does one explain bad choices, big disappointments, freedom but with wounds, especially to an inviting, wacky, turned-on young lady doing a bad impersonation of Lauren Bacall? And how does one keep one’s hands off her? By using common sense, that’s how. By not rushing into something you have no idea about, blundering into quicksand. By going home, taking a shower, imagining what you will, then screwing your head on straight.

Late thirties, he’d returned to his home state, back from California, enrolled in a master’s program, having used ninety percent of his savings for only the first semester. Essential to getting financial assistance for the second term, top grades in his courses had been his goal. He’d needed to secure endorsements for a teaching assistantship. Now, in his second term, handling two sections of freshman composition, his tuition was waived and he received a stipend that covered minimal living expenses—minimally. He drove his mother’s twenty-year-old Volvo that he’d nursed into working condition, and he lived in the cheapest pad he could find. Having fallen back on his love of literature, he had to build a new life.

Broad-shouldered, lean, flexible, Pete stood just over six feet tall, his muscles like a long distance runner’s with the same strength he had as a young man hardened from farm work. Through college and into manhood he’d maintained his conditioning from intramural sports, hiking, kayaking, but dropped most of the sweaty stuff when he got into yoga. With his thick, sandy hair, his strong jaw and observant blue eyes—Nordic to the bone—women considered him handsome, but he did not. He’d never carried himself with the confidence that his looks indicated him worthy of, never thought of himself as even good-looking, just average—average in every way.

A woman finding him attractive and trying to get his attention always surprised him. He doubted himself, maybe from his growing up without a father and, as a result, having been seriously abused as a boy by someone who’d posed as a possible dad-replacement. Lifelong self-doubt often comes from such abuse, he knew, but what to do about it? Though he’d had the usual boyhood tussles, mostly coming out on top, his inclination was to try to reach negotiated settlements, to shy away from conflicts rather than provoking them. Having stayed mostly behind the scenes, he hadn’t had much trouble with others in his life, yet there’d been a few hard-hitting traumas, mostly from sweethearts and that since-hated, faking father figure. At his age he should be over it, but sadly, stupidly, he wasn’t. At this stage, he was beginning to think he never would be.

As a residual effect of his twelve-year involvement with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s TM movement, Pete was sympathetic, though no longer in its entirety, to the law of karma. The concept had proven useful to him—that is, the understanding that what comes to us is the result of our own past actions. This rule forced the believer to take responsibility for his own problems rather than blaming others or complaining about existence itself. It also allowed one to assume control, in that one could avoid future suffering by doing good, which brought good things. Furthermore, according to the teaching, if one raised one’s consciousness in the time between the bad action and its return, one could more effectively bear the brunt of paying the karmic debt. The analogy was that if a poor man incurred a liability, when the payment came due he’d be bankrupt. But if in the intervening time he became rich, he repaid what he owed with little problem. The trick was to raise one’s wealth, in terms of consciousness.

Whatever the debt incurred, it must be paid, no escape. None. According to Vedic teaching, karma is a natural law as immutable as gravity or electromagnetism.

And now this cute, provocative lass shows up, he thought. Despite his not succumbing to her challenge, he hoped she’d be all right.

As he lay in bed reviewing all this, his phone rang. Who, other than perhaps his mother, would be calling him at this hour on a Saturday night? It was Brian Waters from L.A., probably forgetting the time difference.

I finally tracked you down, Brian said. Your mom gave me your number. I had to coax it out of her. What you doin’ up there in the woods hidin’ out with the Nittany Lions?

Brian, great to hear from you. What’s up?

Things are happening here at the station since you left, boss. We’re all pissed off about your dumping us that way.

Sorry. Hadda be done.

Just wanted you to know I’m sending out my resume, needed to call you. Can I use you as a reference?

Absolutely. You saved our butts out there. Got us on the air, when we hadn’t a clue how to do it.

I’m contacting KQST in Pittsburgh. They have an ad out for someone with computer experience. So if I get up that way, boss, is it okay if I drop in?

Pete gave him his address.

Sure you’re not comin’ back to L.A.? Brian asked. We need you, man.

I’m sure, Brian. That string’s been permanently cut.

You know Daisy already left, back to Yale to finish her degree.

"Good for her. That was a marriage not made in heaven. Brand new life, Brian."

But you’re still meditatin’, aren’t you, jack?

Not the siddha program, though. Enough of that.

Don’t wanna levitate? Brian asked.

No. I like solid ground under my rear end.

Damn, you made some earth-shatterin’ decisions! Left us all scratchin’ our heads. Hope it works out, my man.

Yeah, Pete thought as they hung up, me too.

When Pete saw Miss McBride the following Monday afternoon in their mutual classroom, she was on tiptoe, erasing the blackboard, a first. Her return to professional attire—V-neck sweater, pleated skirt and well-shined pumps—partially alleviated his concern about her state of mind. And she’d apparently been to a salon because the hack job on her hair had been mended into an even crew-cut. When she noticed him, she smiled sheepishly.

I was an emotional wreck Saturday night, she said. Sorry for my wretched behavior.

He set his briefcase on the desk. We’ve all been there. No apology needed.

I hope you haven’t formed any long term opinions.

You look much better. But quite a change without your lovely long hair.

Right. Now I’m sure everyone thinks I’m a dyke. Either that or a cancer patient.

"You look like Ingrid in For Whom the Bell Tolls."

Robert Jordan called her ‘Rabbit,’ Viv said, rubbing her head. Here, you try. She leaned toward him.

He brushed her hair with his palm. Yes, peach fuzz.

Anyway thanks for babysitting me. To make it up to you, I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow.

Not necessary.

But I’d really like to. What’s wrong—don’t wanna break bread with a wayward youth?

Is that what you are, Viv?

Maybe it’s what you think I am. I’d like to prove otherwise. Come on, tomorrow, noon, at Ye Olde College Diner, a landmark around this burg. Say yes.

If you insist, but only if we go Dutch.

What’s that? Costumes?

He laughed. We each pay for our own.

Right. Going Dutch, then. I more than insist, she added haughtily in a British accent. I command.

Next morning in his English Department mail-slot he found a lavender envelope. On it was written, To the Mystery Man. He opened it—a card of Goya’s La Maja Desnuda. Pete looked at the reclining nude’s lascivious pose. Inside, Viv had written in a tiny scrawl: Quite a piece of ass, don’t you agree? Please don’t non-confront our lunch. V.

What’s going on with this kid? he wondered again.

When he entered the famed diner, Viv stood up in the back and waved at him. The counter and booths were jammed with students, the place abuzz, Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon blaring. He waded his way through and joined her.

I got here early to save us seats, she said above the din. She wore an oversized Gettysburg College sweatshirt, painter jeans, and excessively heavy makeup.

He settled across from her. I stand out in this place like a sore thumb, he said.

I’ll forgive the cliché, she answered, smiling.

Sorry. Let me rephrase—I stand out like ... a cherry tree. Is that better?

Much. This place is famous for their sticky buns. Did you get my card?

Yes. I appreciate high art.

I wonder if old Goya screwed that babe.

The waitress arrived. Viv ordered mac and cheese and a sticky bun, he a BLT without the B.

No bacon? Viv said. Are you a vegetarian as well as a teetotaler?

Over twelve years now.

Twelve years? she said. How’d you get into that?

I belonged to a kind of group. It was one of their edicts—no meat, no alcohol, no drugs.

You mean a cult?

It was moving in that direction, so I got out.

Scientology? I tried to read Ron Hubbard’s book, but that dude is out of his gourd.

Did you ever hear of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi?

The Beatles guy? I saw him on Johnny Carson.

I worked for him—the Transcendental Meditation organization, that is.

So you know John and Paul.

No, but I have met the Beach Boys.

I dig the Beach Boys, good vibrations and all that. Now we have to listen to this crap. Y.M.C.A. by the Village People was blasting. All my friends were into the Bee Gees, but I liked the sixties stuff. She put her elbow on the table, chin on her knuckles, and leaned toward him, brown eyes intent. Tell me about Brian Wilson and the boys.

"Not much to tell. A good friend of mine worked with their publicist and lived at their compound in Santa Barbara. They’re strong followers of Maharishi. My ex, Daisy, and I spent