The Parsley Eater

By Inglis Cook

The plot of The Parsley Eater takes place in the latter part of the twentieth century, before the advent of the internet and cell phones. It is the account of one year in the life of Fred Dobritzhofer, a.k.a. the Parsley Eater, who is employed by an avant-garde college. He is in his early thirties, and his mother fears that he will be too old to provide her with grandchildren, so she begins a campaign to have him marry a nubile young woman. During the course of the year, he endures several misadventures with women, including contact with the leader of a feminist commune.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546243816

Inglis Cook

Inglis Cook was born in the Midwest and attended schools in that area. Upon graduating from college, he served in the US Army Reserves, after which he began a graduate studies program. Among his interests are communitarian settlements, Feminist movements, and religious ferment in mid-nineteenth century USA and their influence on trends in the 20th century. He published two previous novels-"Fair Are The Woodlands" and "The Parsley Eater."

Book preview

CHAPTER I

It was a dark and stormy night - the opening line of much potboiler fiction - but dark and stormy nights do happen, and this was one. The Parsley Eater parked his pickup truck in the service drive at the rear of Yort College’s Old Main building. He turned on his flashlight, stepped out of his truck, and dashed quickly through the rain to the basement door. As he opened the door, the operations person on duty - L.P.Knorr -shone his flashlight on the Parsley Eater from where Knorr stood at the bottom of the short flight of stairs. He directed the beam of light onto the stairs as the Parsley Eater descended. They both entered the small Operations office located just to the left of the bottom of the stairwell, on the south side of the basement hallway. Knorr told the Parsley Eater that he had been attempting to contact him on the telephone for the past hour to report a storm-caused power outage, and that he was relieved when he saw the headlights of the pickup truck in the service drive.

Normally, a brief power outage would not have been a serious problem. Unfortunately Roach, Professor of Alchemy, had set up several chemical reactions in his laboratory and left them running. When the power went out, the heating mantles on which the reaction flasks rested shut off. The reactants cooled and refluxing ceased. Knorr feared that when power was restored, heating would resume and the reaction mixtures would bump violently, possibly spilling out over the condenser tops and causing a fire. No one was scheduled to be on duty after midnight and it was not known when power would be restored. He was unable to contact Roach. Knorr did not want to take sole responsibility for unplugging the heating mantles and in all likelihood incur Roach’s wrath.

The two men walked along the dark hallway to the entrance of Roach’s laboratory. When they opened the door, they noticed an irritating, fishy odor. The fume hood had ceased working due to the power failure, so vapors from the still warm reaction flasks were not vented from the room. Knorr shone his flashlight beam on the reaction setups mounted on the laboratory bench top. The Parsley Eater commented that the reactions should have been set up in the fume hood. No safety shields protected the equipment, another violation of safety protocols. Roach had not installed fail-safe switches on any of the setups. These switches would have prevented resumption of heating after power was restored. The Parsley Eater unplugged the variacs controlling the heating mantles and closed the water faucets to which the condenser hoses were attached, two simple actions that were all Knorr would have had to do in order to prevent any possible accidents. Knorr was not paid to exhibit initiative.

They left the laboratory and walked back to the Operations office. A lightning flash illuminated the room for an instant, followed by a loud clap of thunder. The Parsley Eater sardonically commented that the thunder was nothing compared with the probable fury of Roach when he discovered that his reactions had been shut down. Roach had a volatile temper. He would most likely assume that Knorr or the Parsley Eater or both were responsible for the shutdown. Predictably, he would run to Mair, the college President, denounce both of them as incompetents, complete incompetents, or super incompetents, and would demand that both be fired immediately. Knorr grinned and nodded his head in agreement. He repeated that he was relieved that the Parsley Eater came by when he did.

Earlier that night, Fred Dobritzhofer, a.k.a. the Parsley Eater, had been at the home of one of his long-time friends, Spizz Spitzmiller. Together they repaired a piece of equipment that Spizz used in his cleaning business. When they finished, Spizz grabbed two bottles of beer from his refrigerator to celebrate their success. While they were drinking, the storm broke, so they decided to shoot pool in Spizz’s basement until the rain let up. The power went out soon after Spizz broke the rack in their second game. After sitting around in the dark for a while, Fred decided to call it a night. The rain obviously was not going to end soon. He said goodbye to Spizz, ran to his pickup truck, and drove in the direction of his parents’ farm, where he lived. On the way, it occurred to him to drop in on Knorr and check up on how things were going at Yort College. Knorr rode to work several miles on a bicycle from the commune where he lived. He was scheduled to go off duty at midnight, but would have to stay at the college until the weather cleared. The Parsley Eater decided to offer Knorr a ride to the commune when the shift ended.

The Parsley Eater and Knorr discussed various maintenance problems in the campus buildings for a while. They worked out a repair schedule for the following week. Then Knorr changed the subject to Roach’s research. He claimed that it was rumored that Roach was involved in methamphetamine production as well as the designer drug development that Roach openly boasted of. The scuttlebutt was that Roach was selling the products of his activities to the Hellyun Stealyuns, a local motorcycle gang, among others. Knorr expressed concern that there might be a bust from the Narcs, although there was little to worry about from the notoriously permissive local gendarmerie. The Parsley Eater responded that he saw nothing, heard nothing, and knew nothing. He offered Knorr transportation back to the commune when the shift was over. Knorr accepted enthusiastically.

The Parsley Eater glanced at his watch and calculated that there was enough time to inspect the upper floors of Old Main before midnight. He climbed the stairs to the main floor and walked down the hallway to the office of the President. He shone his flashlight on the nameplate by the door to the office, which prominently displayed: MAIR, P. PRESIDENT. He opened the door and entered the large room. He checked to see whether Knorr had emptied the waste basket by Mair’s desk, which Knorr sometimes neglected to do. But not this time. As the Parsley Eater left the office, it was illuminated by another flash of lightning, followed a few seconds later by a rumble of thunder. The storm was moving out.

Adjacent to the President’s office was the office of Abu Che, head and sole member of the Media Department. Abu Che was enamored of various third world revolutionaries, particularly Che Guevara and Abu Nidal. Large posters of their scowling visages hung on the walls of his office, along with portraits of Marx, Lenin, Stalin, and Chairman Mao. Abu Che’s real name was Wyndham Whitehead. His father claimed descent from Jonathan Edwards and was a partner in a prominent Eastern law firm. His mother claimed descent from one of the passengers on the Mayflower. Young Wyndham fell under the spell of the hard left in college, repudiated his heritage, and changed his name to Abu Che.

The next office was occupied by DICKEY, M. BUSINESS MANAGER. She was also Professor of Astrology. She and her husband had been employed by the junior college that was the predecessor of Yort College. Her husband, Wallingford Percival Dickey, taught Economics. It was he who was responsible for the nickname Parsley Eater that clung to Fred Dobritzhofer.

After high school graduation several years previously, Fred enrolled in the local junior college, mainly because it was located only a few miles from his parents’ farm. He planned to study two years at the junior college and then transfer to the state land grant university. At the time when Fred matriculated the junior college enjoyed a good reputation in the local community, from which much of its student body was drawn. Fred enrolled in Dr. Dickey’s Introduction to Economics course. Dr. Dickey’s reputation was that of the faculty radical and most absent minded professor. He habitually dressed in the same ill-fitting suit with food-stained tie. His hair appeared to have been styled by a political cartoonist. His ambition was to reconcile the ideas of Karl Marx and Sigmund Freud in one grand theory. During one class session, discussion centered on whether paper currencies should be linked to gold. Dr. Dickey considered gold backed currencies to be barbaric relics. He facetiously proposed that it would be just as logical to back currencies with the parsley used to garnish dinner plates in restaurants. Parsley was slow to decompose and was hardly ever eaten. Thus, a known quantity would be available, or so he jokingly claimed. Parsley could not be counterfeited. The government could monopolize production and prevent contraband parsley from coming to market, as prohibition against marijuana use proved - - hahaha!

Dr. Dickey emphasized again that hardly anyone ever ate parsley garnish in restaurants. Then he smiled broadly and pointed at poor Fred. The previous evening Fred and the Dickeys happened to be dining at the same restaurant, which was featuring a 1950’s theme. Parsley prominently garnished the blue plate specials, the prices of which were definitely not 1950ish. Not knowing what he was doing, Fred ate the parsley on his plate, which act was observed by Dr. Dickey and his wife Miranda. This was the incident alluded to in the Economics class the next morning during the currency discussion. Dr. Dickey declared with mock seriousness that parsley could be used to back a currency because Fred Dobritzhofer was the only person known to have eaten it! The nickname Parsley Eater stuck with Fred, clinging fast to his figurative neck as tenaciously as the old man in the Arabian Nights story.

The Parsley Eater completed his tour of Old Main. Shortly before midnight, he and Knorr locked the doors of the building. They lifted Knorr’s bicycle into the bed of the pickup truck and drove through the steady rain to the commune where Knorr lived. Fred dropped off his passenger and then proceeded to his parents’ home.

CHAPTER II

Next morning the Parsley Eater returned to Yort College half an hour later than scheduled, having caught up on a small amount of the sleep that he lost the night before. Power had been restored some time in the early morning. He accelerated the pace of his routine morning inspections, during which he was relieved to find that Roach was not in his office. The alchemist rarely showed up until late in the morning. Eventually Roach would arrive and discover that the reactions in his laboratory had been shut down, after which time the Parsley Eater was fairly certain that he would be summoned to Mair’s office to explain why he had turned them off. So he chose to spend the first part of the morning doing routine repairs and afterward catching up on a considerable backlog of paperwork, which involved his own office and some routine reports and documentation that President Mair and Mrs. Dickey did not have time to bother with. Before going back to his office, he stopped at Mrs. Dickey’s office to pick up the paychecks for his group. It was payday. Miranda Cassandra Dickey, a very tall woman with a protruding lower jaw and bleached blond hair, was not in a pleasant mood. She handed him an envelope labeled OPERATIONS DEPARTMENT and frowned at him dismissively. The Parsley Eater got the message, mumbled thanks, and immediately left her office.

He walked downstairs to the Operations office and put the envelope in the desk drawer. Then he completed the necessary repairs in various places on campus, after which he returned to the office and picked up an intimidatingly large batch of papers. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, where he had converted an old storage closet into a private space where he could work undisturbed. The closet was strategically situated. One could hear much of what went on in the President’s office if one knew just where to place one’s ear. When Roach would burst into Mair’s office foaming at the mouth, the Parsley Eater would be able to hear what was said. As far as he knew, no one else was aware of this feature of his private cubby hole.

The Parsley Eater took his coffee break in the Operations office in the basement. When he returned to his second floor hideaway he got through much of the paper burden just before lunch time. Then he descended again to the basement, but there was no indication that Roach had been around, even though it was payday. At 1:00 PM Roach was scheduled to lecture in his Introduction to Alchemy class. This course replaced the Chemistry courses that had been taught at the junior college.

At noon, the Parsley Eater left Old Main and walked one block east of campus to Southwind Lanes, a bowling alley with a small restaurant. Yort College had no dining facility. An attempt to provide vegetarian dishes during the noon hour failed, even with a faculty and student body that professed the most enlightened environmental principles. Purists objected that vegetables had to be eaten within fifteen minutes of picking, or else they lost their spiritual and nutritional values. Other objectives and lack of enthusiasm caused the project to be dropped.

Fred was preceded into the small dining room by Professor Boussiere and three of his disciples. Fred waited for them to select a table so that he could seat himself as far away from them as possible. Unfortunately, they chose a table in the middle of the dining room. Fred seated himself at the counter, at the end furthest from the game room, with its noisy pinball machines and other games. Before the waitress came to the table to take orders, Professor Boussiere began to hold forth on his current obsession, the toxic metals in celery. His rich baritone voice resounded with certainty and conviction, easily heard over the racket in the game room. He talked in crisp, measured sentences, all the while leaning on the table with both elbows. The acolytes seated at the table listened attentively. One of them, a scrawny girl named Thisbe, stared at Professor Boussiere with her mouth open and her facial expression that of a groupie in the presence of a rock star. He did not stop talking when the waitress approached the table. Each of the students ordered quickly, not bothering to look at the menu. The Professor interrupted his harangue for the few seconds it took to order his meal, and then continued with the thrust of his argument. His voice rose and his sentences became more convoluted as he denounced the cancerous, genocidal, corporate greed of the capitalistic interests responsible for the outrage. As he wound up his diatribe, he leaned back in his chair and clasped his arms behind his head, revealing the elbow patches in his tweed jacket. However deeply into the counterculture he was steeped, he would not abandon this trademark of academia any more than his predecessors would have repudiated caps and gowns.

At the end of his speech he cited allegedly scientific studies that indicated that pregnant women who ate large quantities of celery gave birth to infants who developed autism, color blindness, speech impediments, and other maladies. Men who consumed too much celery suffered from low self- esteem, depression, halitosis, and possibly much more serious conditions.

This be interrupted in her surprisingly loud, shrill voice: And everyone’s balls will fall off. Professor Boussiere’s face assumed its most grave expression. He nodded in assent. Thisbe chirped in again: Capitalism sucks. The Professor’s countenance exhibited minor irritation at this second interruption. He drew a deep breath and resumed his ranting, this time on a different subject.

Dorree, the waitress, finally got around to taking Fred’s order. While he waited for his food, Fred tried without success to ignore Boussiere, whose new subject was a disagreement with Dr. Dickey, whom he referred to as Wally the worm. When the food finally arrived, Fred ate rapidly, left a tip on the counter, and paid the check. The Professor was still holding forth when Fred exited Southwind Lanes.

Fred walked back to Old Main. Just as he neared the side door to the building, Roach’s sports car screeched to a halt in front. The driver was Tse-tse Tabor, a dancer at a local strip club. Roach got out of the passenger side of the vehicle and walked somewhat unsteadily toward the front entrance. Tse-tse put pedal to the metal and roared off down the avenue.

Roach reminded the Parsley Eater of the actor David Niven. Roach was smaller than Niven, but had a large head with black hair and the trademark Niven mustache. Dark circles set off bleary eyes, under which were prominent bags. Roach barely made his 1:00 PM class. The Parsley Eater calculated that he could finish a few minor chores and leave for home at two o’clock (he had put in extra time earlier in the week), about the time Roach would discover that his reactions had been shut off. Roach then would burst into Mair’s office and throw a tantrum. Mair would promise a full investigation. By Monday things would have cooled down.

This plan was confounded by the appearance of Bosco, the weekend Operations person. Bosco had been the Parsley Eater’s supervisor several years before, when he had begun working at the junior college. Bosco lost his position due to problems with the grape. When Mair purchased the assets of the junior college that were to become Yort College, he hired Bosco as a part-timer and the Parsley Eater as Head of Operations. Obviously, handy individuals who knew the details of the physical plant would be required to keep things going. Mair’s devotion to radical ideologies was tempered by a modicum of practicality.

Bosco was renowned mainly because he was the only person in the area named Bosco. He was addicted to cheap whiskey, which his voice betrayed. On Fridays he regularly suffered from hangovers, and this day was no exception. He would recover over the weekend, during which he would work two day shifts. By Sunday evening he would be ready for another binge. He had come to collect his paycheck and to complain about Bogen, whom he disliked working with, even for the little time that their shifts overlapped. Bogen was the fourth Operations person and worked some afternoon shifts. Bosco threatened to pound sand up Bogen’s ass. The Parsley Eater had heard Bosco threaten to inflict the same punishment on virtually everyone who incurred his displeasure from the first day at work several years before. He listened to Bosco’s gripes about Bogen with feigned sympathy. The Parsley Eater was not able to leave at 2:00 PM as planned because of the time spent with Bosco. The remaining chores would have to be done and it would be after two o’clock before he could complete them. Shortly after Bosco left, the Parsley Eater moved his pickup truck from the service drive to a nearby side street so that it would appear as though he had left the campus. He then walked back to Old Main and completed the chores that needed to be done there. As two o’clock approached, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered the closet above Mair’s office that he had converted into a working space. He was able to hear that Mair was talking on the telephone, but in such a low voice that distinct words could not be heard.

A few minutes after the Alchemy class was over, Roach stormed into Mair’s office. The President did not employ a Secretary. Secretaries were uncomfortably capitalistic, unegalitarian, and -horror of horrors!-bourgeois! There was no gatekeeper to the office. Obviously, Roach had been to his laboratory and had discovered that someone had shut off his reactions. He screamed a few expletives, seemingly not noticing that Mair was still talking on the telephone. Then Roach quieted down for a minute or two. When Mair ended his telephone conversation, he asked Roach what the problem was. Roach began a rapid fire denunciation of the Parsley Eater, laced with standard condemnatory Anglo-Saxon epithets, and ended with the demand that the super incompetent Head of Operations be summarily dismissed. Mair replied in slow, measured remarks, distinct enough that his soft voice could be heard upstairs. He asked how Roach knew that the Parsley Eater was responsible for shutting off the reactions and said that he did not understand why Roach was so agitated. He requested that Roach calm down and slowly explain the situation. He also inquired whether the reactions were the cause of the fishy odor that permeated the basement and the first floor early in the morning. Roach then began a calmer explanation of the matter, ignoring the last question. He claimed that he was on the verge of a great designer drug discovery. He had promised samples to avid seekers of chemically induced spiritual ecstasies at a prospective weekend party. If all went well, he would be awash in cash in a few months, and Yort College presumably would benefit as well. Now, his fellow celebrants would be let down. As far as the Parsley Eater was concerned, who else could have done it?

Mair knew that the Parsley Eater was virtually irreplaceable. Hiring individuals who could do plumbing, janitorial, electrical, and other work at a reasonable salary was next to impossible. The Parsley Eater knew the physical plant better than anyone, and it would take a replacement a long time to learn all that was necessary. The learning curve could prove to be costly. The turnover in the part-time underlings in Operations was a cautionary reminder of the difficulty of getting anyone to work in non-daylight hours, particularly in winter. A good maintenance person was more valuable than an alchemist. Besides, Mair knew about Roach’s past- how he had barely wriggled out of a very serious situation at his last place of employment.

Mair had stepped out of his office shortly before beginning his telephone conversation. He had observed that the Parsley Eater’s truck was gone from its customary place and concluded that he had left for the day. He told Roach that he would discuss the matter with the Head of Operations on Monday. Then he inquired of Roach why he had not noticed that the reactions had been turned off before two in the afternoon? Mair reminded Roach for the second time that he noticed the fishy odor when he came to work that morning and determined that it originated in Roach’s laboratory. He attempted to contact Roach by telephone, but to no avail.

Roach lied that he had been busy with a literature search all morning. The Parsley Eater laughed to himself, suspecting that the literature referred to was a reading of Tse-tse Tabor’s tattoos. He had heard enough. He left his listening post and went to complete the chores in the other campus buildings. When he was done, he returned to Old Main and descended the stairs to the basement.

Just as the Parsley Eater reached the bottom of the stairs, Professor Boussiere opened the door to the first floor stairway and shouted down: Hey, Just the person I was looking for! Then, as he descended the stairs, he unctuously implored: How about doing a little job for me over at the blue house?

The blue house, so-called because of its turquoise color, was a ramshackle old building close to campus that Boussiere owned. It was a firetrap, divided into small apartments and rooms. The inhabitants were Yort students and the hangers-on that lived near all academic institutions. Most of them were dopers. Rents were what the market would bear, and the good Professor was as zealous as any slumlord in collecting them punctually. The old house required constant repairs. Boussiere usually employed the Parsley Eater or Bosco to do the fixing outside of duty hours. He paid cash. This time the problem was a leaky toilet.

The telephone rang in the Operations office before the Parsley Eater could respond to the request. Just a second, he replied as he stepped through the doorway to the basement hallway. He then entered the office and picked up the telephone. The Professor followed him. The caller was Rhea Wrathall, Wymminz Studies Department Chairwoman and chief goddess. She began talking as soon as the Parsley Eater identified himself. Rhea refused to talk face-to-face with any member of the male gender, all of whom she loathed. Communication with male colleagues was by written message or telephone. If the latter, she spit out what needed to be said and hung up immediately. She informed the Parsley Eater in her icy all-men-are-pond- scum voice that she had been informed that L.P.Knorr would not be able to do his shift that evening unless he could get a ride from Rosemary Commune. The bicycle that he normally uses is being repaired, she stated, emphasizing each word staccato style. Then she hung up, allowing for no reply.

Rosemary Commune was located three miles outside of town on land that formerly was the Hermes farmstead and was not far from the Dobritzhofer family farm. It was one of the many neo-pagan back-to-nature utopias that were springing up at the time. It emphasized worship of the divine feminine. Males who joined the commune accepted second class status. They could not own any personal property. Even their drivers’ licenses were confiscated. They were allowed outside the commune to work, but had to travel as Knorr did by bicycle or be driven to their places of employment by one of the female members. Their earnings were deposited into accounts controlled by the founder of the commune, Eldora Searcy- known as Lady Eldora- and other female residents.

Professor Boussiere could easily hear Rhea’s strident voice even though the phone was pressed close to the Parsley Eater’s ear. The fat lady, I presume? he speculated. The Parsley Eater nodded affirmatively. He calculated that he would have time to deal with the problem at the blue house, pick up Knorr and bring him to work, eat supper, and then bowl in the Friday night bowling league. He told the Professor: I’ll finish work here and then go over to see how things look. Where’s the leaky john? Boussiere answered that it was on the second floor and added that he would pay the usual rate.

CHAPTER III

Fred had parked his beater two blocks west of campus, half a block away from the blue house. Before he entered the building, he retrieved his tool box from where it was stored behind the seat of his vehicle. He would not enter the blue house without his tool box, whether he needed it or not. The residents tended to be paranoid and were prone to challenge anyone that they regarded with the least suspicion or who appeared to be a square. Carrying his tools identified him as a repairman. When he arrived at the building, he noticed a young woman wearing a long dress and a large sun hat busily planting geraniums in the small front yard of the house next door. The flowers contrasted with the fast food containers that littered the yard of the blue house. The woman ignored Fred when he walked by her house. As soon as he entered the hallway of the blue house, the odor of pot was noticeable. When he located the bathroom housing the defective porcelain god, he determined that the problem was the flapper. He returned to his truck and drove to the nearest hardware store to make the necessary purchase. Returning to the blue house, he carried his tool box and the new flapper up to the second floor and began to work.

The couple in the apartment across the hallway was fighting noisily. The woman’s anger evidently was caused by her boyfriend’s refusal to do any work at all, including housekeeping. All he ever did, she charged, was shoot dope, drink beer, and watch television. She complained that she had to support both of them on her meager salary. The target of her accusations could make no serious defense, merely calling her names, demanding that she stop breaking his balls, and eventually leaving the apartment. He entered the bathroom where Fred was working. The young man, manifestly stoned, addressed Fred earnestly: I used to take ten hits of acid a day. In case Fred had not heard him, he repeated the statement. After a brief pause he said it again, and yet a fourth time. Fred ignored him, continuing his labors. Finally, the young man stopped talking and stood watching Fred repair the toilet. When Fred was nearly done, the female resident of the apartment from which the young man emerged appeared behind him. She was a small, slender girl with long slate colored hair and tired, sunken eyes - more likely to be seen on women many years her senior. She wore tight jeans, a T-shirt, sandals, and was smoking a cigarette. She asked the young man what the hell he was doing standing there with his mouth open, his hands in his pockets, and bothering the man who was trying to fix the toilet.

Fred finished up, gave the toilet a few flushes to make sure everything was OK, and picked up his tool box. He smiled at the couple and introduced himself. The girl seemed to be cheered by his recognition of her presence. Her facial expression changed from sour to bland. She acknowledged Fred’s halfhearted social gambit and replied: I’m Heather, the zombie is Jeremy. The zombie kept staring at Fred, who ritualistically intoned: Nice to meet you. The girl slapped the young man in the buttocks and led him back into the apartment. Fred left the building, walked over to his truck, installed his tool box in the rear of the cab, and drove off to pick up L.P.Knorr.

The couple that he just met was typical of the inhabitants of the blue house. The lives of most of the young men who lived there were centered on various controlled substances. None were regularly employed. Some were Yort College students. A few shared small apartments with women who supported them. In some cases, parents of the young men paid their rent because their presence at home could no longer be tolerated. One boy was the son of a local dentist. He stole his father’s coin collection, built up over many years, and sold it for a fraction of its value so that he could experience one high. Residents of the blue house had no compunctions about stealing from one another.

Once in a while, some of the young men would get jobs as mules. They would receive backpacks containing illegal drugs along with round trip bus tickets. They would travel to one of the college towns on the bus route. The backpack would be stowed on the upper luggage rack away from where they were seated so that it could be disowned in the unlikely event of a police inspection. At the prescribed stop, they would retrieve the backpack, exit the bus amid a crowd of students with similar backpacks, and deliver the contraband to a vehicle whose description, license number, and location had been provided. Later, after they returned home, they would be reimbursed for their efforts in cash or drugs. They were instructed never to investigate the contents of the backpacks, or else. The young men were not so far gone out of mind that they did not know what or else meant.

While Fred was driving to Rosemary Commune, the thought occurred to him that here was Professor Boussiere, who claimed to be a celebrated intellectual, who aspired to reform an entire political system and construct a perfect society, yet was incapable of fixing a leaky toilet or even a faucet!

CHAPTER IV

When Fred arrived at Rosemary Commune he parked in front of the main building, a large old mansion constructed at a time when the farm was one of the most prosperous in the area. The original owner was one of the most prominent men in the county and he and his wife hosted frequent entertainments. The mansion was constructed to accommodate their lifestyle. It was the most spacious farmhouse in the county.

Fred honked his horn using the code he and Knorr had agreed upon previously. The one other time that he picked up Knorr he was told bluntly that outsiders were not welcome and to stay in his truck until someone came to him.

There appeared to be no activity at all in the commune. Possibly the residents were having one of their many meetings. He noted the presence of several vehicles in the parking area on the side of the main building and wondered why Knorr could not have been taken to work in one of them by whoever was permitted to drive. He also recalled that the message instructing him to transport Knorr to work had been received by Rhea Wrathall. He speculated about what possible connection she might have with the commune. He realized that he had spent much of the day out of his office. Possibly there had been attempts to reach him directly.

Fred honked his horn one more time. He was about to leave the truck and knock on the door of the old farmhouse when Knorr appeared on the passenger side. He climbed into the seat next to Fred and smiled his usual simpering grin. They drove off. Fred asked Knorr how he planned to get back to the commune after his shift was over. Knorr anticipated the inquiry and immediately replied that he intended to sleep on a cot in Old Main that night and walk to the Occult Store the next morning. That enterprise was operated by a woman who lived at the commune, purportedly a witch. The bicycle would be taken to a repair shop in the morning and hopefully would be fixed that day. If it was repaired in time he would ride it back to the commune. If not, the Occult Store operator would drive him back after closing time. He had brought enough food to last a day.

When they arrived at Yort College, they noticed that a few people were standing outside of the old Chapel building talking with Reverend Finney, Head and sole member of the Spirituality Faculty. The members of the group were considerably older than the age of the average student, and the Parsley Eater did not recognize any of them. Knorr pointed out that it was Friday the thirteenth and Reverend Finney, a defrocked priest, might be planning some sort of ritual, perhaps a black mass. After Knorr exited the truck the Parsley Eater momentarily thought to inquire of Reverend Finney what, if any, activities might be planned for the evening, but he was beginning to be pressed for time. He figured that Knorr should be able to handle any situation that might arise. So he pulled out of the driveway and drove home.

Fred ate a hurried supper with his parents. He did not even have time to walk the family dog Candy, the Border Collie that his parents had raised from a puppy, which he usually did when he got back from work. His mother served the meal as soon as he arrived. It was complemented with his father’s homemade wine. Matters of immediate interest were discussed - things that needed to be done on the farm and how Fred was doing in his personal life. His mother made tangential inquiries about the woman he occasionally dated, a lady who worked at the public library. She was a few years Fred’s senior, so grandchildren would be unlikely if they were to marry. Naturally, his parents hoped that Fred would find a more nubile object of his affections. His mother had a candidate in mind, as mothers are wont to do. But she knew better than to press the matter at the time. His father was worried that the unseasonably cool, wet weather would delay planting past the normal time. The Thursday night storm was a real soaker. The ground was still too wet to deploy equipment.

After supper, Fred showered and changed into his bowling shirt and slacks. He drove back to Yort College, parked in his usual parking space, and walked over to Southwind Lanes. The other three members of his bowling team were already there and were rolling practice balls. Two of them were Fred’s close friends and high school classmates. The third was Professor Stork, who retired from the junior college at the time when it closed.

Fred did not have a good night -too many splits. He barely made his 155 average. He even lost the beer frame. Professor Stork had a below average evening. Spizz Spitzmiller and Buzz Bolinger, the two high school friends, did well, so the team won two of three games and total pins.

Just as league play was ending, Ab Jacks sat down on a stool at the bar, which was immediately behind the bowling area. Jacks was the leader of the Hellyun Stealyun motorcycle club. He was a huge, powerfully built man. His shaven bullet head was topped with a SS forager cap, one of the many items in his collection of Nazi regalia. His black jacket exhibited the club patch and insignia, and various satanic and Nazi symbols. When he took off his jacket, massive arms covered with tattoos were revealed. The arm tats featured variations on the same themes as the jacket, with prominent green shamrocks on each shoulder. Rings dangled from his ears. Malevolence radiated from his visage. He sat at the bar sipping a beer, talking to no one, just scowling at the bowlers.

His mother owned the bowling alley through complex financial arrangements. She also owned the nearby strip club. Her ownership was not widely known, and was, of course financed by money provided by her son. He had access to channels that specialized in laundering money from illicit activities and redeploying it into legitimate enterprises.

Jacks stared contemptuously at Fred while he was storing his bowling bag in his locker. Momentarily, Jacks thought to give Fred the razz berries for his mediocre third game, which was displayed on the screen for all to see, but checked the impulse. He recalled that Fred’s mechanical ability had come in handy earlier that year when one of the machines broke down and the counter man on duty could not repair it. Fred saved Southwind Lanes a substantial sum of money. He was able to fix a machine that otherwise would have required the services of an expensive out-of-town mechanic. There was no gain in pissing off guys like Fred and his buddies. Jacks had other opportunities to throw his weight around. He did exchange a few words with Bolinger, an ex-cop who still had friends on the police force.

The members of the victorious team, nicknamed Pinheads, exited Southwind Lanes and drove their respective vehicles to Ray’s Place, the bar they regularly patronized after bowling. Professor Stork joined them, which he infrequently did unless he lost the beer frame. That evening was one of the exceptions.

Ray’s Place was a package liquor store with a small bar in a back room. It was a shot bar with one brand of beer on tap. The walls of the room were dark and without any decoration. Only the bar area was illuminated. The bartender worked between the bar and a counter with a mirror at its back, flush against a wall. The counter was filled with the usual collection of various spirits. All of the customers were seated on bar stools when the Pinheads entered the room. The team sat down at one of the half dozen closely spaced tables. The waitress was happy to see them. Business was slow for a Friday.

They ordered a pitcher of draft beer. Professor Stork rarely imbibed anything but fine wines, and the vintages served in this plebian establishment did not tempt his palate. So he accepted the glass of beer that the waitress poured for him, paid for by Fred.

Professor Stork taught Mathematics at the former junior college for over thirty years. Each of his teammates had taken at least one course from him. He was fortunate to have reached retirement age at the time when the institution was closed. During his long career, he observed the progressive radicalization of the faculty and the denomination that sponsored the junior college. He was very bitter about the destruction of the institution to which he had devoted his career. He had concealed his feelings for a long time, but tonight was going to be different. Perhaps the fresh barrel of draft beer and the company of trusted friends was the catalyst for the subsequent outpouring of his feelings.

He said nothing while his teammates engaged in desultory banter about subjects of personal interest. His opening came when Bolinger inquired about a former faculty member who at one time had bowled on the team that was the opponent of the evening. Stork informed Bolinger that the individual had managed to obtain a position at a small college in another state. He added that it was a damned shame that so many good people had been hurt as a result of the closing of the junior college.

Bolinger followed up with another question, which he had wanted to ask Stork for a long time: "What was behind the decision to close the junior college? I know that the fire was a big factor, but the damaged buildings could have been rebuilt. Enrollment was stable and the junior college had been around for at least fifty years

Professor Stork sipped his beer and said that it was necessary to understand the events that led up to the closing, which he had not previously discussed with his teammates. He decided that this night was a good time to put forward his strongly held beliefs on the subject, so he continued. He asserted that the individuals most responsible for the closing were the Dickeys, whom he loathed, and the person he referred to as that crazy Englishman.

Doctor Dickey was the sole member of the Economics Department at the junior college, and he continued to teach the subject at Yort College. He was the only member of the teaching staff to make the transition. He claimed to be a Marxist, but he enthusiastically embraced other radical notions and fads, some of which were incompatible with orthodox Marxism. He was descended from a long line of academic radicals. Oldfield, the so-called crazy Englishman, was hired by the junior college for one year to replace a faculty member on sabbatical. Oldfield claimed to be a poet of some renown and an expert on Medieval Latin chants. It soon became apparent that he harbored a deep hatred for the United States of America (which he always referred to as this bloody country) in general and the locale of the junior college in particular. He became friendly with the Dickeys- Miranda Cassandra Dickey was most favorably impressed by him. He shared her interests in occult and extraterrestrial phenomena. Mrs. Dickey claimed to be in contact with a visitor from a planet orbiting the star Achernar. She would sit down and stare intently at a swinging pendulum, after which she would fall into a trance and utter gibberish. Oldfield convinced her that the extraterrestrial visitant somehow had taken possession of her speech centers and was communicating in Medieval Latin, which the visitant learned on a previous expedition. After a while, the Achernian switched to a language understood by neither of them, by which time Oldfield had tired of the game of feeding the old girl’s space flights of imagination. This did not prevent her from formally predicting that the visitant would soon reveal itself to them in physical person.

One night, Oldfield was arrested in the company of a female student in her first year at the junior college. He had driven the girl to a quiet residential street and parked the car, remaining until a late hour. A homeowner noticed the presence of an unfamiliar automobile. When she was ready to retire, she observed that the car was still there and was occupied by two individuals involved in some sort of activity in the back seat. She called the police.

Oldfield and his companion swore that nothing untoward had taken place. The girl was of age, so there was little basis for any but the vaguest of charges. Nevertheless the incident was potentially embarrassing because faculty members were strictly enjoined from having anything but the most formal relations with students. The junior college administration contrived to squelch publicizing of the incident. Some cynics claimed that the girl and her mother had received a consideration for their silence, but they were hard pressed to identify anyone who would spend money to save the obnoxious Oldfield from the consequences of his stupidity, not even extraterrestrials from Achernar. Oldfield expressed profound indignation at puritanical American ways. It was one more proof that America was indeed a barbarian country.

The junior college President was well aware that the institution had dodged a public relations bullet. He was not willing to risk a repeat of such an episode, which he considered likely due to Oldfield’s arrogance. Oldfield appeared to be unaware that the girl had just barely passed the age of consent and he did not seem to care. The President decided to hand Oldfield his walking papers.

When the Dickeys heard of this, they were outraged. Doctor Dickey insisted that there be a meeting of the appropriate faculty committee to review the decision. He was a member of said committee, as was Professor Stork. Before the committee convened, Doctor Dickey canvassed the other members, a majority of whom were the more radical staffers. They were unhappy with the administration even though it had been impeccably progressive. There were the usual petty, self-interested complaints. No matter how progressive administration policies were, they always fell short of the ideal, never going far enough. It was not difficult to persuade certain individuals that the President deserved to be thwarted in the matter of Oldfield. Some were leaving for greener pastures at the end of the term and were beyond retaliation.

When the committee eventually met, Doctor Dickey spoke fervently in Oldfield’s behalf. He claimed that he and his wife were so upset when they heard of the proposal to dismiss Oldfield that they stayed up all night. He pointed out that the incident had taken place off campus and not during duty hours. Oldfield was merely fulfilling a father figure role for a poor troubled girl whose male parent had long ago abandoned his family. Oldfield was unaware of American prudishness in such matters. In the more advanced civilizations on the other side of the pond, no one would think anything of the matter. Furthermore, the reputation of the junior college would be irreparably tarnished if it became known that such an eminent scholar had been subjected to such arbitrary persecution and emotional trauma. The arrest and contact with the local Gestapo had been punishment enough. The moral turpitude clause in the contract, the basis for the dismissal, was obviously arbitrary, capricious, vague, misguided, and outmoded. Doctor Dickey reminded his colleagues that academic freedom was at stake. He knew that he held the high cards. The President could not overrule the committee without the episode becoming publicized. It was decided that Oldfield should be subjected to a letter of reprimand. All of the committee members voted for this disposition of the matter except for the President, who abstained, and Professor Stork, who voted for summary dismissal.

After relating his recollection of the meeting and the events leading up to it, Professor Stork took another sip of his beer. His teammates remained silent, not wishing to interrupt his train of thought. All three were most interested in what he was telling them. They stared at him expectantly. He then continued.

Oldfield was scheduled to leave the junior college at the end of the term. The campus was virtually deserted after final examinations were over and grades had been turned in to the Registrar. Oldfield’s office was on the second floor of the library. On the last night of his stay, he remained in the office past midnight. When the Operations person came to the library on his final round, Oldfield told him that he needed a little more time to finish up matters and remove his belongings. Oldfield assured him that the building would be locked when he left. The Operations person was new and was intimidated by faculty members. His duty was to clear all buildings by midnight because no one would be on duty until morning. He was tired and wanted to go home. So he ignored strict official policy. He figured that Oldfield would be leaving town in a few hours and that no one would be any the wiser about his failure to insist that Oldfield leave or to wait around until he did.

Parenthetically, a decision made earlier in the year to save money by eliminating the midnight shifts of the Operations persons, who were basically fire guards, proved to be the crucial factor in subsequent events.

Oldfield was a heavy smoker and used his waste basket as an ashtray. The waste basket was full of papers. Evidently he did not fully extinguish his last cigarette. At least that was the charitable explanation of the cause of the resulting fire in the official investigation. Professor Stork maintained that Oldfield deliberately started the fire just before he left the building. That particular night was very windy and no one was around to hear the alarms when they went off. The blaze was going strong when it was finally reported and soon spread to the adjacent dormitory and dining hall. By the time that the understaffed fire department arrived at the scene, the library was a total loss. The dormitory- dining hall was seriously damaged. Unfortunately, insurance was not sufficient to cover rebuilding costs. The denomination that sponsored the institution decided to close it. The reasons cited were the fire, rising costs, and enrollment that had not increased in several years. When Mair offered to buy the campus with its remaining buildings, the board of directors accepted. The two fire damaged buildings were razed and Yort College opened the following year.

Professor Stork had no doubt that Oldfield deliberately set both buildings on fire. Fred was skeptical about that conclusion. He agreed that the fire started in Oldfield’s office, as the investigators determined that it had. But they did not report a finding of arson. Apparently the fire burned undetected in the library for some considerable time. Windows that had been left open admitted strong winds to fan the flames. By sheer bad luck, the fire was not reported until the flames had spread to the adjacent building.

Professor Stork believed that the report of the investigators was ridiculous. He maintained that when the alarms went off the fire department automatically should have been notified. No one ever claimed to have heard the alarms. Oldfield, he insisted, disarmed the alarms. The fire was reported by a passing motorist who noticed the flames. Professor Stork also contended that there was no way that the fire could have spread to the adjacent building. He accused Oldfield of starting that fire too. Fred objected that Oldfield did not have a key to that building. Professor Stork countered the objection with the fact that, according to the fire inspectors’ report, the windows had been left open. Oldfield could have jimmied up a screen and thrown any amount of combustibles through the window.

Fred chose to not argue the matter any further. Professor Stork believed strongly in the scenario that he had just proposed and was exhibiting obvious irritation at Fred’s skepticism. Privately, Fred did not accept much of Stork’s theory. At bottom, it was true that Oldfield was most likely responsible for the Library fire, whether deliberate or not. Fred rejected Stork’s claim that Oldfield started the dormitory fire. Fred attended workshops on fire prevention and knew that fires spread in unpredictable patterns, particularly in windy weather.

Professor Stork calmed down after Fred stopped asking questions. The other two men said nothing during Professor Stork’s narration. They were vaguely aware of the details about the fire, mainly information provided by Fred. Naturally, they were curious to hear a different slant on the event. By the time Professor Stork finished talking they had quaffed two glasses of beer each and ordered another pitcher.

Professor Stork swallowed the remaining beer in his glass and repeated his main point that if it had not been for the Dickeys, Oldfield would have been sent packing before the end of the term when the campus was not deserted. At that time, if Oldfield committed arson, the fire probably would have been detected before it got out of control because a different Operations person would have been on duty. He would likely have performed his duties by the book and not permitted Oldfield to remain in his office after midnight or would have stayed with him until he left. Later on, a fresh employee was on duty, and Oldfield was adept at pulling rank. He easily intimidated a new employee, but probably would not have been able to buffalo a more seasoned man.

Spizz and Buzz asked Professor Stork a few questions, which he answered by repeating points that already had been made. Finally, the beer was consumed and it was time to leave.

Fred decided to check up on L.P.Knorr on the way home.

The Parsley Eater parked his truck in the usual spot at the rear of Old Main. As he exited the vehicle, he was jolted by vibrations of music so loud that, as his mother would have declared, it could wake the dead. It emanated from the Chapel. The music was not the rock or country western with which he was familiar, but could only be described as weird. Whatever Reverend Finney might have been up to earlier was now in progress. The Parsley Eater opened the door to Old Main and descended the stairs to the basement. When he entered the Operations office, L.P.Knorr was seated at the desk and was busily drawing on an artist’s pad. Knorr was startled. Evidently he had not heard the Parsley Eater’s truck enter the service drive due to the loud music. Knorr dropped his crayon, folded up the pad, and turned his head to face the Parsley Eater. He smiled his signature grin. The Parsley Eater inquired whether Knorr had been checking up on the goings on in the Chapel. Knorr replied that he had not as yet because the really loud music had only begun a few minutes before. He suggested that they both go to the Chapel and tell Reverend Finney to tune things down. The Parsley Eater’s initial unconsidered reaction was that there was no big hurry, and that the group in the Chapel might lower the decibels themselves. He was quite sure that they did not want to be disturbed. He asked whether Reverend Finney knew that he and his company had to be out of the Chapel by midnight. Knorr said that Reverend Finney stopped by earlier in the evening and informed him that he was leading a ritual that would be consummated at precisely that time. The participants would disperse soon afterward. Knorr would then lock the Chapel. He planned to sleep on a cot in the office overnight anyway, so running a little past midnight was no imposition.

After a few more minutes, the Parsley Eater became uncomfortable with what might be going on in the Chapel, but did not particularly want to know. He was getting tired and wanted to go home. Two late nights in a row were taking their toll. At least Finney had acted with courtesy. He glanced at the clock. It was just past eleven. He convinced himself that there was no point in staying around until Knorr’s shift was over, as he had done the previous night. Upon further consideration, he told Knorr to check up on things in the Chapel in five or ten minutes if the loud music persisted. He was confident that Knorr could handle the situation by himself. The activities in the Chapel might drag on longer than Reverend Finney promised, and if they did, Knorr was going to be there. As he turned to leave, he asked Knorr what he was going to do for breakfast. Knorr said that he had a thermos of tea and some veggies. The Parsley Eater offered him a five spot to buy breakfast at a fast food restaurant. He knew that Knorr was not allowed to eat meat (he was permitted dairy products) and was not allowed to have money on his person. The Parsley Eater urged Knorr to have a slab of ham or sausages with an omelet next morning. Knorr grinned conspiratorially and accepted the bill. His spirits were elevated by his prospective small rebellion.

CHAPTER V

Saturday evening Fred drove to Fairhome Apartments. Joyce, the librarian whom he had been dating off and on for the past few months, lived in that high-end domicile on the north side of town. They planned to have dinner and then attend a play staged by the local community theater. One of Joyce’s closest friends had a role in the play, a revival of a 1950’s comedy. Fred borrowed his mother’s automobile for the evening. Joyce was the kind of woman who would not appreciate being driven around in an old, grimy beater. Fred even put on a blazer and tie, dress obligatory for the functions Joyce liked to attend. After he parked in front of the apartment building, he straightened his tie before exiting the automobile. Then he walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped into the entryway. The feeling of vague apprehension that always overcame him prior to evenings in the company of the fair sex did not desert him. He glanced at his watch-he was a few minutes early. Joyce had impressed him with her insistence on punctuality and in her case it was mutual. She was descending the stairs at the other end of the entryway when he closed the front door behind him. Joyce was of slightly above average height, slender, flat chested, and plain- with dishwater blonde hair. Her most striking feature was her large feet. She dressed tastefully and carried herself with naturally good posture. She was what at the time was called a lady. Dating a lady, even a not particularly attractive one, was a new experience for Fred.

Joyce directed a forced smile at Fred as she approached him. As usual she wore an expensive dress- one of light blue color. She wore white gloves, a pearl necklace, and what appeared to be costly earrings. A spring coat was draped over one of her arms. Fred deferentially held the door open for her as she left the apartment house and did the same when she seated herself in the automobile.

He had made reservations at the best restaurant in town. They were seated at a table shortly after they arrived. Joyce ordered her usual Bacardi. Fred would like to have ordered a beer, but feared that Joyce would not quite approve. So he ordered a glass of white Zinfandel, a viand not as classy as Chardonnay, but minimally acceptable, or so he thought. He did not particularly care for it.

Joyce was in a reasonably good mood at that time of the evening, grateful that she