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From: Uther Pendragon <nogardneprethu@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} "Get a Room - F" (Uther) MF nosex
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Date: Tue, 14 Dec 2010 17:10:02 -0500
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This material is copyright, 2010, by Uther Pendragon. All rights
reserved. I specifically grant the right of downloading and keeping one
electronic copy for your personal reading so long as this notice is
included. Reposting requires previous permission.
If you have any comments or requests, please e-mail them to me at
nogardnePrethU@gmail.com .
All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as public
figures in the background, are figments of my imagination. Any
resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.


Get a Room-F
by Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com

MF nosex


Carolyn Nolan's first thought after she'd met Bill Pierce was that all the
good ones were taken. When she came up the outside stairs to the
Aldersgate UMC, Bill was at the top carrying a baby. He was tall and
handsome, if a little old for her.

"First time?" he'd asked. Carolyn had nodded. "Welcome. I'm Bill."

"Carolyn." They shook.

"And this is <b>Alice</b>." His tone implied that the baby was more
important than anyone else. Alice, who was clearly Asian, gave Carolyn
a grin. Then Bill continued pacing while Carolyn went in to be greeted
and given a bulletin by a lady.

It was at coffee hour after the next service when she learned that Bill
wasn't taken. A man was changing another baby on one of the tables.
Bill was on the other side of the table, holding both the baby's hands
and leaning over talking to it. It was easy to tell that this wasn't Alice.
Not only was the baby bigger and white, he was -- temporarily --
naked below the waist, demonstrating that he was a boy. When the
other man had put the new diaper and pants on the kid, he handed him
to Bill. Bill brought him over to Carolyn.

"Carolyn, have you met Stan?" She shook her head. "And Stanford,
this pretty lady is Carolyn." The kid wiggled in his arms, and he set him
down. "Go to Daddy!" The kid raced off. Bill walked her to the line,
and they chatted for a minute. He asked her how she liked the church
and what she did. She did like the people, and he seemed used to grad
students; she wasn't the only one in the room. He asked her department
right off, showing his familiarity with the concept. When they'd each got
a cup and a plate of food  -- the monthly 'coffee hour' was liberally
interpreted -- he introduced her to several other people and left her at a
table of unmarried graduate students. Still, she had questions about Bill
that she didn't want to ask them. For one thing, they'd pick up on her
interest. When she'd drained her cup, she went back for a refill past a
table which held Alice in a carrier.

"Hello Alice." Alice, who was bored by all the attention, was more
interested in pulling off her shoe than in meeting another stranger. "I'm
Carolyn. I met Alice in Bill's arms."

"I'm Nancy Hashimoto, and this is my husband, Carl. Yeah. I was the
official greeter last week. Bill was managing Alice while I handed out
bulletins. Actually, he'll hold her any time we're both willing, and Alice
is
almost always willing."

"I'm sorry. We did meet."

"No problem. You come in to a mob of people; they're all new to you.
You're one new person to them." She got her coffee and returned to
her previous place.

As time went on, Carolyn got drawn into the fellowship of the
congregation. She was pleased by the intellectual openness. Her home
church back in Arkansas had been infested with fundamentalists. Mr.
Bingham, who'd taught Carolyn's senior-high Sunday School class, was
the local leader of the advocates for teaching creationism in schools. If
anyone at Aldersgate doubted evolution, they kept as quiet as
Carolyn's own parents had about their disagreement with Mr. Bingham.

Harold, a second-year grad student in chemistry, invited her to the first
university dance. He tried to go further than Carolyn thought was
appropriate on a first date, and she felt -- despite his field -- no
chemistry. Still, he wasn't awful.

Miss Armbruster recruited her for the choir. The choir rehearsed on
Thursdays and warmed up before service. Since they sat above the
congregation and came in by another door to robe in the basement
before the service, she no longer spoke with Bill except at the next
coffee hour. Still, the man intrigued her. That interest didn't interfere
with her social life. He residence hall hosted a mixer, and a fellow
economics first-year took her to a movie. Then, one Sunday, she came
to church on a bright, still-warm, morning; at noon, there was a heavy
cold rain outside the doors. As she hesitated, Bill came up.

"That what you have for rain gear?"

"What I have here." She was wearing a light dress, which fit easily
under a choir robe. He, on the other hand, was wearing a raincoat and
holding an umbrella.

"'If you don't like the weather in Chicago, wait fifteen minutes.' I don't
think that applies to this storm -- it looks closer to forty days and forty
nights. Look, stay here until I honk. I'll drive you home." Without
waiting for an answer, he opened his umbrella and dashed out into the
storm. A few minutes later, a black Pontiac honked. It must be him.
She dashed for the car, and the door opened as she got near. She got
in beside him.

"Gee, thanks."

"Nothing. But I don't know where you live. What's the address." She
gave it to him. "Settling into your studies? Midterms aren't coming up
are they?"

"Not really."

"Look, how'd you like to go out to eat Friday night? I could pick you
up there and take you to a restaurant I like."

"I'd be pleased." It wasn't the smoothest invitation for a date she'd ever
received, but it would be a date. And, she guessed, dinner was what
non-students do on first dates. They didn't have all those dances that
Northwestern students have.

"Is six-thirty too late? I get back from the Loop, and have to get my car
afterward. If I drove home from the Loop at rush hour, it would be
even longer."

"Six thirty would be fine." By this time, they were stopped in front of
her residence hall. He didn't seem anxious for her to get out, and the
conversation didn't seem finished. It wasn't. He reached into his hip
pocket to extract his wallet. He pulled out two cards and wrote
something on the back of one of them.

"That's my home number. Day contact info is all on the front. Could you
give me your number?" He passed her both cards and his pen. She
wrote the number of the phone in her hall on the back of the card which
he hadn't written on and gave it and the pen back.

"Thanks for the ride." She reached for the door handle.

"The pleasure was mine." The car didn't move until she was inside the
door. The card gave her Bill's last name, Pierce. The Hashimotos and
the pastor and organist seemed the only people at Aldersgate with last
names, and she only knew the pastor's because it was on the bulletin.
He introduced himself as "Jake."

Anyway, the card said that Bill Pierce was assistant sales manager for
Andalusia Pharmaceuticals. They provided 'ethical drugs,' whatever
those were.

Friday morning, after her shower, she dressed in her tightest jeans. She
wanted Bill to notice her shape. After class, she changed into a frilly
blouse and the bra that went with it. She finished the last of her
assignment for her Saturday-morning class while she was waiting. A
little after six, there was a shout in the hall -- "Carolyn." Carolyn
Schneider got there first.

"Who is it?" She paused and then asked Carolyn, "You know a Bill
Pierce?"

"Sorry," Bill said when she got the phone, "I'd forgotten what dorm
phone service was like."

"I should have given you my last name. I didn't think."

"Yeah. Anyway, I'm back from work and about to go out the door.
What's the drill? I forgot to ask you on Sunday. Do men just walk in?
Will they call campus security if I try?"

"They're not that bad. There is an entrance area. You give my name,
Carolyn Nolan, and they page me. There's even an inside area where
you can go if I'm with you. If you're on the floor, <b>then</b> they call
campus security."

"Will do." But knowing he was on his way, she met him downstairs.
She brought a raincoat. He escorted her to his car and opened the door
for her. When she was inside, he went around to get in the driver's seat.
It wasn't a major positive; it was more that entering the car first or
letting her open her own door would have been a negative.

"Do you like Chinese?" he asked. "Chinatown North, a section of
Chicago, isn't too far from here." She agreed. The restaurant was a real
restaurant, despite her image of 'eating Chinese.' He seated her and
hung up their raincoats.

"So," she asked, "you manage to sell drugs which don't lie, cheat, or
steal?" He looked blank. Well, he was courteous and prompt; people
who knew him better than she did trusted him with their kids. He had
some virtues even if he lacked a sense of humor. "What makes a drug
ethical?"

"It's more how you get it. It was the drug industry until people started
talking about street drugs. You want one of ours, you get a prescription
first. For that matter, most of ours wouldn't interest a junkie.
Representatives don't dare leave a sample case out where it can be
seen in a car, even so. The company has a few over-the-counter
products, too, but I don't deal with them. The marketing is entirely
different."

As they ate, he described the tactics of getting his company's drugs
prescribed. It didn't sound all that ethical to Carolyn. Still, he could
make it sound interesting. She stuck to his field, having learned that the
way to a man's heart did <b>not</b> pass through discussions of the
marginal propensity to save. Boys weren't even interested in discussions
of the marginal propensity to consume, which should -- after all -- have
sounded sexier.

He drove her back, parked the car, and walked her in. When he kissed
her, he didn't ask permission, but he moved slowly enough so she could
have ducked it had she wished to. She definitely hadn't wished to. She
like him, and she liked the kiss. Unlike her experience with Harold,
there was considerable chemistry there. He let her go, but called the
next day to thank her. The day after that was another coffee hour at
church. He was carrying Alice again when he came up to her.

"I'd like to thank you again for coming out with me Friday."

"The pleasure was mine."

"Could I tempt you to come for another dinner next Sunday after
church?"

"I'd be pleased." She usually smoked a cigarette on the way home from
church, but she could delay one of her four cigarettes a day for another
date.

And then Alice, who was clearly not used to having less than Bill's full
attention, started climbing out of his arm. He laughed and walked away
swinging her. He was waiting for her when she came out after the next
service, though. That was the date when she learned that Bill wasn't
only not taken, he wasn't a nice one either.

The date started well. The restaurant was a fancy one. Her Sunday
clothes were on the less-formal side of the women's dress. He had a
reservation, and the restaurant seemed to require them. The food tasted
good, and she scored with her first question.

"Do people really rob your salesmen of their drug samples?"

"Not often. Replacing the windshield they break to get the case is the
representative's responsibility. Only slow learners replace two
windshields. And the drugs they carry aren't often anything the addicts
want. But those aren't the smartest people.

"Look suppose that somebody has a blood pressure of one-eighty. The
doctor prescribes one pill a day to bring it down below one-fifty, and
that isn't really healthy. Now, what would happen if you took that pill?
We really don't know, but if it lowered your blood pressure thirty
points, you'd probably faint. They test these things out to see whether
they deal with problems, not to see how they affect healthy people.
Now, some addict gets those pills and gulps a dozen. If he survives, it's
a miracle."

"I thought lower blood pressure was good."

"Well, for most people, it would be. We have huge numbers with high
blood pressure -- we sell a lot of medicines for them. I haven't heard
about anything to treat low blood pressure. On the other hand, a blood
pressure of zero means you're dead." They went on that way until she
thought this was a quite successful date. Then, somehow, the
conversation turned to the economy.

"This Great-Society crap was bound to ruin the economy. Washington
needs the discipline that businessmen deal with every day. Instead, they
dole out this Keynesian bullshit."

"Well, first of all, the economy was doing all right -- spectacularly well,
in fact -- when Kennedy and Johnson and their appointees were in
control. The growth rate of real GDP was significantly higher than it
was under Eisenhower. Somehow, the economy grows well when
Keynesians are in control; it tanks when they're replaced with
old-school economists -- somehow, that's supposed to demonstrate the
weakness of Keynesian economics. After all," she tried to point out
calmly, "this is macroeconomics. It's what I study."

"Well, it's what you're in your first quarter of studying. I have an MBA,
and I studied it all." She'd heard about this 'I know enough' mindset, but
she'd never run into it in her own field. Most of the people she'd dealt
with who weren't econ majors themselves would go to sleep before you
could get "demand curves are negatively sloped" out of your mouth.

"In the first place, I may have just begun my <b>graduate</b> study of
macroeconomics, but I have a bachelor's degree in economics. I don't
really see why they'd put much emphasis on macroeconomics in a
business school. Microeconomics is what you do, after all."

"Micro, macro, economics is economics. You guys may get lots of
theory, but I know how things work. I make it work every day." She
swallowed her anger and took that as a lead.

"And in the business-school economics you studied, did they tell you
that a decrease in price would lead to an increase in volume? That's
standard for beginning micro. Well, you're operating in the real world --
drug sales. Would a decrease in price lead your doctors to prescribe
more? We're both talking theory. It's just that the theory you learned is
a little simplistic."

"Just shows how much theory is worth."

"And the statements you originally challenged weren't theoretical.
They're the matter of statistics, statistics published in <i>Economic
Report of the President</i> with Richard Nixon's name up front."

"You can prove anything by statistics. What you call growth was just
inflation." In macroeconomics, the alternative to getting information via
statistics is getting information via direct revelation, and this seemed to
be Bill's chosen route. She papered over the differences. They finished
dinner, and Bill took her home. When he tried to kiss her good night --
or good afternoon, it was not yet three -- she twisted away. She was
so furious that she went through six cigarettes that afternoon, totally
breaking her daily ration.

Her dates for the rest of the year were fellow students. She saw Bill
only in church, and spoke to him less often than that. Still, even
knowing that he was an arrogant ass, she still felt that he was an
<b>attractive</b> arrogant ass. She couldn't forget their one kiss. She
even began to regret avoiding the second one.

She stayed at Aldersgate, although the charm at its intellectual openness
had begun to fade. She wasn't an evolutionary biologist, after all; she
was an economist. The lack of creationist fundies hardly compensated
<b>her</b> for the presence of a monetarist fundy. She was in the
choir, however. and one of the good points of this church was that Bill's
opinions didn't predominate the way Mr. Bingham's opinions had back
home. He'd just been laying down his views on welfare and waste at
the March coffee hour when Dan Hagopian walked over.

"Nice shoes," Dan said. "Who tied them for you?"

"You bats? I tied them myself."

"You sure didn't sound bright enough to tie your own shoes five minutes
ago." Dan's voice, which had started loud, was getting steadily louder.
"We had a first-time visitor when you started sounding off about
welfare. She immediately got her stuff together and left. Now, our
diversity numbers suck, and you might not care about that. But I know
what you do care about, and she took her baby with her. That's one
infant you'll never carry, and it's all because you can't keep your
damned mouth shut."

"But I didn't mean..."

"What you didn't do was think. Look, some welfare mothers might be
cheats; some <b>might be</b> dope addicts. What every single one of
them is is a mother. You have to choose between insulting them and
their trusting you with their kids. And, for the sake of this church and its
being welcoming, I hope to God that you choose selfishly."

She almost clapped for Dan, but everyone else was pretending that
they hadn't heard him. She was beginning to fit in, to be seen as a
member rather than a newcomer, but she knew that this perception
would reverse if she took on an old-timer. Dan could call Bill an idiot;
she couldn't.

Still she was fitting in. In May, she sang a solo. She knew that she
wasn't the alto with the best voice in the choir, but Miss Armbruster
thought she was good enough for that. Afterwards, people were
complimentary -- even Bill, especially Bill, was complimentary. She
thought it ironic that he had such kind words for her voice, which was
barely more than acceptable, and such a low opinion of her knowledge
and skills in economics, which had put her on the path to a doctorate.
She responded politely, though. Trading an insult for a compliment
would have been ungracious.

She spent most of her time at coffee hour with the other grad students.
The rhythm of the university year gave them more to talk about to each
other -- even though they mostly came from different departments --
than they shared with the people discussing property taxes or the
problems of finding the right play group. And, when school resumed in
the fall, she was one of the old-timers in that group, at least.

Not that the older members were standoffish. Gladys Hagopian, one of
the better sopranos, came up to her in early November when they were
hanging up their robes.

"Going home for Thanksgiving."

"I don't think so."

"It's a hell of a holiday to spend alone. Our kids are coming back. Care
to join us? Dan and I would love to have you."

"That's very kind." And so she ate Thanksgiving dinner with Gladys,
Dan, and Keith Hagopian and Brian and Barbara (Hagopian) Zelinck.

"I almost applauded you when you bawled out Bill Pierce last spring,"
Carolyn told Dan.

"Well, he expresses foolish opinions too loudly. But those are common
opinions, if not in church. After all, more than half the electorate voted
for Nixon."

"And with the choice they had, too," said Keith. "Tricky Dick was the
greater of two evils."

"I wrote in your name, Daddy." For some reason, Barbara winked at
Carolyn when she said this.

"A write-in vote might be recorded in most instances," said Dan,
"although laws in many states require the candidate to register his intent
beforehand. For president, however, you're not voting for the man on
the ballot. You're really voting for the party's slate of electors for that
state. Since I didn't have a slate of electors in Ohio, your vote was even
less meaningful than write-in votes generally are. I thought I'd taught
you that." Keith and Barbara were grinning; Gladys was looking
pained. Suddenly Carolyn understood the wink. Dan was a poli-sci
professor, and his children were pulling his leg. Well, she would keep a
straight face.

"You're a little hard on Bill," Gladys told her. "He has a lot of good
points, too." Maybe she was trying to change the subject. Carolyn
wasn't hard on Bill Pierce. She rarely even spoke to the man.

At the December coffee hour, though, she broke her silence. Alice had
grown from a happy baby to an over-active toddler. Nancy was trying
to put a coat on her, and she was running away. She ran past the table
of grad students. Bill was standing nearby. He reached down and
captured her not a yard from where Carolyn was sitting.

"Gee, thanks, Bill," Nancy said. "Now hold her while I get this on her."

"Nope! Finders keepers -- losers weepers. I'm going to take Alice
home with me. Aren't I?" The last was addressed to Alice, who nodded
vigorously. Even so, Nancy advanced with the coat. Carolyn couldn't
keep her silence.

"For God's sake, Bill. That isn't a toy for you to pick up when nobody's
looking. Alice is a human being, and Nancy and Carl are her parents.
Now, give her to Nancy!" Bill laughed, although he held Alice while
Nancy put the coat on her.

"Look," Nancy said, "why don't the two of you get a room?" Get a
room? She didn't even like the guy. Carl came over and pulled Alice
into his arms. Bill didn't resist, although Alice did. Nancy picked up the
bag with her parenting paraphernalia.

"Really, Nancy..." Carolyn couldn't finish.

"Really, Carolyn. I'm sorry for speaking out like that. Alice had me
frazzled, or I wouldn't have invaded your personal business. But you
have to know that nobody can be in the same room with you two
without sensing the tensions."

"Tension? I hardly speak to the guy."

"And, when you do you, you bawl him out for a silly joke. Look, I have
to go. Deal with it; don't deal with it. It's not my business, but you've
made it everybody's business." She left. Bill was still standing a yard
away. He looked as if he wanted to start a conversation. As an
alternative, she turned to Brigit, a grad student in English who was
sitting beside her.

"I don't see what she meant, do you?"

"Yes." She looked embarrassed. Then she looked like she was taking
the bit in her teeth. "Where was Bill sitting this morning?" Where he
always sat, maybe a quarter of the way back, and on the right-hand
side -- the left-hand side from the congregation's perspective. "And
where was I sitting? Answer me that one."

"How in hell am I supposed to know where you were sitting?"

"Carolyn, I was liturgist today, sitting beside Pastor Jake. You heard
my voice not an hour ago, but you've forgotten already. No problem!
Why should anyone but me remember that?"

"So what's the point?" Brigit didn't answer, but Carolyn answered
herself. She knew where Bill had been sitting. She knew where Bill was
right then, although she was studiously ignoring him. When the
conversation turned back to plans for Christmas break, she felt Bill
move away. He was waiting for her when she left the building, though.

"Look, Nancy's suggestion of a room wasn't serious. If you want to
bash this out, though, I've got a car and we can get food at Mickey
Dee's and talk in the car."

"I don't think we have anything to talk about."

"Nancy does. Brigit does. For that matter, I do, but you don't think my
opinion counts."

"It doesn't."

"What's your opinion of me?"

"You're opinionated, arrogant, ignorant, conceited, and..." She needed
a breath -- and a larger vocabulary.

"And those are my good points. I think you're a bright girl with a pretty
face, a sweet voice, and absolutely gorgeous hair."

"All you think I am is a pretty face on the front of an empty head. Well,
let me tell you, Northwestern didn't agree when they admitted me, and
my professors haven't agreed when they've graded me."

"I started out saying you were bright. If I were your professor, that
might be more important to me. As it is, I think your beauty is more
important. I'm not trying to judge you in the balance for your place in
the world. You go to the dentist, you don't tell him about your blood
pressure. He's only there to deal with your teeth."

"What is it with you and blood pressure, anyway?"

"Huh? I was just making a comparison."

"On our last date, you talked about addicts stealing blood-pressure
medicine."

"Our last date? Is this your idea of a date, then?"

"Not 'last' like 'previous.' 'Last' as in 'the last we'll ever have if we
both
live a thousand years and you're the only man left alive on earth.'"

"You sure you don't want to discuss this in more privacy?"

"We have absolutely nothing to discuss."

"Don't look now, but you've been talking to me."

"But we were talking about you. That's discussing absolutely nothing."
As she turned to walk away, she noticed that they'd had an audience.
The adult members were trying to look as if they hadn't been listening.
Some of the kids were staring open-mouthed. Her face flamed, but she
walked home as if nothing had happened. When she got the usual
distance from the church, she lit a cigarette. Somehow, it burned down
before it usually did.

She almost didn't go to church the next Sunday. That would be running
away, though. If she didn't sing in the choir, she'd be the major topic of
conversation in the robing room. Instead, she went early and left in the
last group. They had to find other topics for discussion.

By the time she went home for Christmas, it was old news. She was
sure that somebody would mention it now she wasn't there, but they
had other things to talk about. At home, the conversation was all about
people back there. Her mother did take her aside, though.

"Dear, how is your romantic life going."

"Mama, I don't have a romantic life. I'm an economist. There's nothing
romantic about being an economist."

"That wasn't what you used to tell us. Keynes marrying the ballerina
and everything. You sure you're happy?"

"I'm happy. At least, when the work-load isn't crushing I'm happy. And
I can promise you that I won't marry a ballerina." Mama gave her a
Mama look. She knew better than to argue with that look. She would
never convince her, and -- anyway -- what she was dubious about
wasn't marrying a ballerina. It was hard to see what she could be
dubious about. Carolyn was happy.

Her first Sunday back in Evanston, she noticed that Bill had changed his
side of the church. He sometimes moved to be closer to a baby, just in
case the parents were willing to pass it over for Bill to walk when it
fussed. But she couldn't see the target baby, and the choir loft gave a
good view of the congregation. He kept moving around from one week
to the next. Sometimes, she could see why -- when he kept close to the
Hashimotos, for instance. Sometimes, she couldn't.

By the end of the February coffee hour, Alice had figured out that Bill
would grab her if she got too close. She taunted him from just out of
reach while he feigned indifference. Suddenly, he lunged. Alice
squealed, turned, and ran -- right into her father's legs.

"Thanks, Bill," said Carl. He held Alice while Nancy wrestled her into
her coat. They walked away.

"Changed sides, Bill?" asked Ruth Schweib. She was a Sociology
student. "I though you were always on the kid's side."

"Nah! She wanted to be caught. She just wanted to make a game out
of it. If Carl and Nancy had gone home without her, she'd have been
scared."

"Now he's an expert on child psychology," Carolyn observed. "Terrible
that the rest of us have to study things to learn about them."

"Now, Carolyn, however inadequate you think my study of economics,
you can't deny that I've spent plenty of time studying Alice." He waited
for an answer, but she wasn't talking to him. Then he walked over to
the serving table. He stood there gossiping with Molly. And just when
she wanted more coffee, too. Well, she drank too much coffee as it
was. She got up and put on her coat.

"Leaving your stuff?" asked Ingrid, gesturing to her plate, cup, and
silverware. Somebody cleaned up at the end of coffee hour, but the
responsible eaters took their own dishes and utensils back.

"I suppose. Will one of you take care of it for me?" There were grins
around the table for some reason.

Harold removed his hat from a seat to offer it to her during the March
coffee hour. It wasn't where she'd intended to sit, but she took it. Ruth
was on the other side, and began a conversation. Bill, with no child in
his arms for a wonder, came close.

"You've been around for a while, haven't you,  Bill?" Harold asked him.

"Not too long. I joined in '63. Everybody who came here before you
looks like part of the furniture."

"Still, you've seen some changes," said Ruth. They began a three-way
conversation. Bill, talking to the two others, was standing right behind
her. She felt that he was surrounding her, although there was nowhere
else for him to stand if he were going to take part in that conversation.
Ingrid got up from across the table to get a coffee refill.

"Get me some too, will you? I'm rather trapped here." Hint, hint. Well,
instead of taking the hint, Bill took her cup and saucer.

"I'll get it. I'm on my feet, anyway." He got to the serving table before
Ingrid did, and came back with the coffee. He'd added creamer. "Tell
me if it's too sweet." It wasn't. She knew where he sat in service; he
knew what she took in her coffee. "Sorry," he said to Ruth's next
question, "I've got to be going." He wandered away. Now that he
wasn't hemming her in, she could pay attention to the discussion at the
table, but, somehow, it didn't interest her enough to give it her full
attention.

When Ruth and Harold invited her to sit between them at the April
coffee hour, she declined. After all, she knew other people in the
congregation now. She wasn't certain that they'd planned the last time
with Bill right behind her, but she had her suspicions. She sat beside
Gladys at another table. After a bit, the discussion there went to
worries about whether their children were drinking too much or taking
dope when they were away from home. She felt out of it, even when
she was consulted as an expert on the current generation -- especially
when she was consulted as an expert on the current generation. Plenty
of people had attended the University of Arkansas to party, spending
more time on keg parties and smoking than on studying; they hadn't
gone on to grad school.

There was five new adults at the next coffee hour, and she felt she'd
been around long enough to welcome newcomers. She sat with the
woman who'd come alone. Another couple, Ted and Dorothy, had felt
the same sense of obligation, but they knew what they were doing.
Carolyn mostly kept her mouth shut and her ears open. Jane was a
single mother who'd lost not only a husband but a house in Kenilworth
in a divorce.

"Well," said Dot, "we're glad to see you. We'd be glad to see your
daughter, too. There is a Sunday School at ten and a nursery during
church."

"I don't like to leave Desiree with strangers. She's not walking yet."

"Well, the nursery is an offer, never a requirement. You saw, or could
have seen, kids in the service this morning."

"Yeah. When I came in there was a guy walking his daughter outside
the glass doors."

"About six foot tall?"

"Yeah."

"That's the unofficial alternative to the nursery. Bill Pierce. He loves
kids
and will walk them so their parents can participate in the service." So,
even when he wasn't standing right behind her, Carolyn couldn't escape
from Bill.

One day in late spring, she'd been overdosing on coffee to get her
papers done and cram for the upcoming finals. During the service, her
bladder complained. She got through the service, but headed for the
woman's john while still in her robe. When she came out, April was
sitting on the stairs up to the main level. She shouldn't have been there,
but where-she-shouldn't-be was April's location these days. She
certainly shouldn't have been on stairs without adult supervision. She
was also getting a pretty dress and one sock dirty. The stairs were
grimy from everything that had come off peoples' shoes from the muddy
sidewalk. April waved a shoe imperiously at her.

"Prillay," she said. Whatever that could mean. April's vocabulary was
only distantly related to regular speech, but Carolyn couldn't figure out
what 'prillay' was a distortion <b>of</b>. She got the shoe back on,
kept hold of April's ankle until she could pick up the entire child, and
delivered a squirming April to Nancy.

"Thanks a million, Carolyn." But both parents looked too busy with
their child to assuage her curiosity. She went on to the robing room,
and walked back to her room for more cramming. She had something
to ponder during her after-church cigarette.

By the next week, her worst paper was though the first draft. The
weather had changed, too. When she got out of church, Nancy was
waiting outside. April and Bill were climbing the outside steps of the
church. These were nasty stone ones, but she could see that Bill had a
grip on April's wrist. Nancy looked free for conversation.

"Nancy, tell me something. What does April call a shoe?"

"Shoo. Well, sometimes 'shoo-shoo.' She gets it confused with her
train. And the train is absolutely silent, well, silent when she's pulling
it
on a rug. Anyway, it doesn't go 'choo-choo.' Have you ever seen a
steam train? I haven't. Why do we still call them choo-choos for kids,
anyway?" Carolyn could see why all of this would interest a parent, but
it was getting far from her point.

"Last week, April handed her shoe to me and said 'prillay.' I couldn't
figure out what it meant." Nancy looked guilty. "Look, I'm not from the
bureau of toddler politeness. I'm a grad student with an overdeveloped
bump of curiosity. Sure, you worry about her saying please, but
nobody expects her to say that without prompting at that age, and it
says wonderful things about Aldersgate that she thinks anyone of us will
help her. We should, and she should expect it." Nancy still looked
guilty.

"Really, Carolyn, I don't know. She didn't get it from Carl or me."
Which was a strange answer. Who else would she have got it from?
She'd met Carl's parents and they had almost no accent. Even if they'd
taught April some Japanese, and their visits had been fairly rare, that
wouldn't be any cause for embarrassment. And 'prillay' was as far from
'you've been pissing' as it was from 'put on my shoe.'

But Carl drove up just then. He and Carolyn greeted each other. Bill
and April were on the bottom step. She wanted to go up again, but he
dragged her over towards the car.

"Hello, April," Carolyn said. It was only polite to greet people, and
there wasn't anybody else worth greeting whom she hadn't.

"Say 'hi' to the pretty lady," said Bill.

"Hi, Prillay," April said. Nancy picked her up and stuffed her into the
car seat.

"Well, we're out of here, and out of this. We'll see you later." She got in
the car and it drove away. Carolyn might have thought the departure
was precipitous, but she had other issues just then.

"Bill how could you? That's awful!"

"What's awful? So I refer to you as a pretty lady. You are, and it's not
as if I said, 'say hello to the busty wench,' now is it?"

"Busty wench?"

"That's what I don't call you. That would be insulting. What's insulting
about 'pretty lady'? You aren't one of those who think ladies only
should be called women, are you? Anyway, I don't even know what
'wench' means except it isn't complimentary, and it is a woman." She
didn't know what it meant, either, though she had a vague picture of
medieval bar maids. But he was trying to change the subject.

"That's irrelevant. You're trying to change the subject."

"Just what is the subject?"

"You know."

"No, I don't, and you don't either, or you wouldn't have said that. Let
me put it another way. What subject do you wish to discuss? Select
one, and I'll try to keep to it."

"I don't want to talk with you."

"Okay." There was a long pause, but he was smirking.

"Last week, I found April sitting on the stairs leading up from the
basement."

"Alone? She shouldn't have been on stairs alone. Did she fall?" She
could believe that his concern for April was genuine, if nothing else
about him was.

"She was sitting on a stair near the top. One shoe was off. She handed
it to me and said 'Prillay.' I put it on and took her to Nancy."

"Just what you should have done. Now, how was that a misdeed on my
part? I didn't leave her there; you know I wouldn't leave her in a
dangerous position, not even leave her with one shoe off." Strangely
enough, she did. He might be an awful person in many ways, but he
was absolutely responsible with kids, except that...

"She got that 'Prillay' from you."

"Well, not the pronunciation."

"What do you say to her?"

"'See the pretty lady?' I mean there might be other things, depending on
the situation. But nothing derogatory. I don't see what the problem is."
She couldn't quite express it, but...

"I don't want you talking with her about me."

"But she's at an age when talking with her is necessary. Her language
skills for the entire rest of her life depend on what she picks up this
year." That was incredibly over dramatic. A kid raised by wolves might
never learn to speak, but April wasn't being raised by wolves. A few
minutes each Sunday morning wasn't going to ruin -- or save -- her
cognitive development. On the other hand, it was close enough to true
that she wasn't going to get into a fight about it. It was probably better
for April to have Bill talk to her than to be ignored.

"It doesn't have to be about me."

"Probably not, and most of the time it's not. On the other hand, it's a
strange request. And, it's a <b>damn</b> strange complaint to make
that I didn't honor that request before you made it." And, put like that, it
was. But she was letting him get away with some more bullshit.

"And you claim that the reason you talk to April is that it's good for
her."

"I never denied that I enjoy it, too. Three questions: Do I like it? Does
she like it? Does it do her good, or at least no harm?"

"And what if it's something you enjoy very much and it does her a little
harm?"

"Well, if I know it would do her harm, I wouldn't enjoy it. Okay, I get
her sweets at coffee hour. But no more than her parents permit, and
Carl's a dentist, for God's sake. That's another rule. It has to be
something the kid's parents permit."

"Bill Pierce, the saint."

"I don't claim that. Those are the rules. I don't always keep them. Have
I spun kids around until they threw up? Yes. Did they demand that I
spin them around again just before they threw up? Yes. I'm not
omniscient."

"Except about economics."

"Is that the subject of this conversation?" There was a long silence,
which he broke by backtracking. "Look, you like to sing. Even if you
don't, lots of the choir members do. They perform -- you perform -- a
service to the church. That it's something you enjoy doesn't lessen the
service you perform. Why is it evil that I perform a minor service for
kids -- and for their parents -- just because I enjoy it?"

"You're being silly." And, with that comment, she turned and walked off
past people who were pretending not to know her. She'd let Bill trap
her into another of his conversations!

It was raining after church the next week, but she'd come prepared with
an umbrella. The basement exit leading to a pool that would ruin her
shoes, she went upstairs. She got her umbrella open in the fellowship
room where others were waiting and looking out. Either they were
waiting for a lull or for the driver to come back with the family car. She
went out past them. She'd not gone three steps beyond the door,
however, when a gust blew the umbrella inside out. she struggled back
to the doorway, and tried to wrestle the umbrella back into shape. Bill
came along with his umbrella and raincoat right then.

"Look, if you're not scared of me, I'll be back with the car in a second."
Then he took off running. Scared of him? She didn't think anything of
him. But people had heard that comment. If she didn't go -- if she
walked half a mile in the rain to avoid riding in his car -- they'd think
she
was scared of him. When he honked, she dashed for the car. She held
the remains of her umbrella between her legs while sitting beside him.

"Scared of you? Why should I be scared of such a miserable excuse for
a man?"

"Dunno. You've sure been avoiding me, though. Look, what -- what
particularly -- have I done?"

"You're arrogant, nasty, sneaky, deceitful..."

"That's what I am. What have I done? If I'm deceitful what deceitful
thing have I done?"

"You ask that, after tricking me into these conversations."

"Well, asking a question may be starting a conversation, but it's not a
particularly tricky way of doing it. What was the conversation I tricked
you into?"

"Well, the last one -- last Sunday. You tricked me into that one, and in
front of everybody, too."

"If I remember correctly, you started that conversation."

"After you taught April to call me 'Pretty Lady.' That was tricky."

"Well, I didn't teach her to say it very well. And, I was only talking to
her. You didn't tell me you didn't want me talking about you until then."

"And you keep saying you like my singing. Those are totally
unnecessary conversations."

"Those are the only ones in which you behave in a half-way friendly
fashion. And three comments on three solos is hardly stalking you. Was
I the only one who said that they liked your solos?" Of course, he
hadn't been. But he was only being sneaky again.

"Where are we going anyway?" they should have been close to her
residence hall by now, and she didn't recognize the street at all.

"Mickey Dee's. You were telling me all my faults, and thought you
needed to keep up your energy for the task."

"I don't have time to tell you all your faults. The list is too long."

"So you need your energy. Big Mac? This way, at least, we don't have
the audience." That was a point. Besides, the McDonald's was an even
longer way from her residence hall than the church was, and the rain
was coming down more heavily.

"Shake?" Was he trying to bribe her?

"Coke." He got to the window.

"Two big Macs and a large coke." He drove on, got his order, and
paid. He drove them to a parking space at the back of the lot. "Why
don't you throw that umbrella in the back seat? Now, is that the worst?
Seems to me that you were mad at me long before April called you
'pretty lady.'"

"No the worst thing about you is your arrogant ignorance."

"Which was shown?"

"By claiming to know everything about economics, when you don't
know jack shit."

"Dan was kinder, but -- then -- Dan's a friend. He did say, though, that
I thought too much of my MBA and not enough of doctorates."

"Well, I don't have a doctorate, yet."

"No, but your professors do. And you weren't telling me something
your professors weren't telling you."

"Actually, I was telling you something you could look up yourself. It
wasn't abstract theory, it was the rate of growth of real GDP. Look,
you think professional economics is a bunch of abstractions, don't
you?"

"Yeah, and I have to go to work dealing with particular figures every
day."

"I'll bet I look at more numbers than you do. They're aggregated, sure."
And all figures were aggregates -- really -- if hers were more
aggregated than his. She thought of an example. "You don't ask your
salesman how many minutes they spent with Dr. Smith and how many
minutes they spent with Dr. Jones. You do ask him how many minutes
he spent with doctors that day."

"Maybe I should. Actually, I don't."

"Well, I don't look at what your company sold this week, but I do look
at what the drug industry sold last year. And I look at what every other
industry sold last year, too. Until my head is swimming in numbers." But
she was getting way off the point.

"But that isn't what I wanted to say."

"I'll listen." And, horrible as he was, he would listen to her. He was
further along on his burger because he'd spent more time listening.

"What you studied was microeconomics. It's not really the same. They
are terribly abstract. And, really, the abstractions aren't close to the
real
world. What's the competition for a Big Mac from McDonald's?" It's
not a Big Mac from somebody else, even he could see that.

"Huh? A Whopper, I guess."

"But they aren't really the same."

"I don't think they are."

"We're sitting in a Packard, eating Big Macs. You sell drugs. Are there
other companies which sell drugs identical to yours?"

"There are generics, which claim to be as good, but they're not really.
They don't go through the same trials."

"Do they sell for the same price?"

"God no! Even so, we have to cut our prices when generics come out.
Wrecks the profit margin."

"So, there is no direct competition for the car we're sitting in, for the
food we're eating, for the stuff you sell. But micro theory is based on an
auction market." [She was frightened to use the word 'competition' with
him. He'd say his company was engaged in competition; certainly that
GM and McDonald's were.] "There just aren't all that many actual
auction markets setting prices in this economy."

"There's the stock market."

"So there is. And, look at the stock market. They set a new price for
any particular stock every minute. So, the grocery store doesn't act like
the stock market. But the basis of classical microeconomics is that
everyday prices are set on an auction market. The papers aren't studies
of particulars, 'The marginal cost of producing soap, and the resulting
price of Palmolive hand soap.' Instead, they assume that the market
somehow does operate that way.

"But macro isn't done that way. People dig into tons of data. They
study what happens when you cut taxes, when you raise taxes, when
you run a deficit, when you spend lots on new roads. And it's a bitch,
too."

"You sound like you're getting to the end of the term." Man did know
something about being a student.

"Well, yes. I'm writing a paper in regional economics. Y'know why
Chicago became the railroad capital of the USA?"

"I'm not sure we are. Anyway, it's at the bottom of Lake Michigan, If
you want to go northeast or northwest, you have to pass through
Chicago."

"Or Gary. That's the point. It's easy enough to see why Chicago ranks
Milwaukee. But the real southernmost point of Lake Michigan is at
Gary, but they didn't build the railroad yards there. Chicago already
existed. New York is a major railroad hub because it was the largest
city in the country when the rails were being laid. There are factors and
factors -- and more factors.

"The micro boys can tell you precisely what the price of a widget will
be. That might not be anywhere close to the actual selling price of
widgets, but they can draw two graphs and point you to the price. I, on
the other hand, have to explain what actually happened and -- what is
worse -- predict what will happen. Anyone ever tell you about the
Tsar's railroad?"

"No. What Tsar? What railroad?"

"Haven't the faintest idea what Tsar. The railroad line between Saint
Petersburg and Moscow. The tsar came upon a couple of engineers
arguing about what was the best route for a railroad line between the
two cities. (This was when there wasn't such a line and railroads were
rare, at least in Russia.) They were pointing to a map and arguing. The
tsar grabbed up a ruler and a pencil. He placed one end of the ruler on
Saint Petersburg and the other end on Moscow. With the pencil, he
drew a line from one to the other. 'Why there, of course,' he said."

"Sounds reasonable, if a bit arbitrary."

"Well, he didn't have either of them executed, which counts for being
non-arbitrary when you're the ruler of Russia. The railroad was built on
that line. It contains only one curve. Can you guess where that is?"

"At Moscow?" He saw her expression. "At Saint Petersburg?"

"No. Where the Tsar had his thumb over the edge of the ruler. Now..."

"Really?"

"Really, in the middle of a dead-flat stretch. As I said, neither man was
executed; they probably wanted to maintain that record. Now, though,
regional economics is the study of where things are done. And,
sometimes, it feels like predicting where the tsar is going to put his
thumb." All of this was true, but...

"But I've been telling you about the pothole before you've seen the
road." He laughed at her words.

"You did have me rather lost, there. Although the tsar story was one I'll
remember. I'm glad to hear it wasn't <b>just</b> my density." She had
to go back six steps.

"Your office is in the loop, and it doesn't have all that many
employees?"

"There are quite a few. It's national HQ as well as regional."

"But there are more factory employees, and the factories are
elsewhere?"

"Sure."

"I'm thinking of specializing in regional economics, and that is what
regional economics is about. Offices get services and prestige by
locating in the central business district. They use a small fraction of the
company's space. So, they can afford the high rent of the central
business district. How much is it worth to you to be in any particular
location? How much does it cost? The people who want to be in a
location bid up the rent or the land costs until the people who are willing
to pay the price fill the space -- there are no spaces left open and there
are no people are who willing to pay the price are left out. Very simple
application of economics, but..." She'd been talking too much, she
should shut up.

"But?"

"But there are always other factors. I don't know when your company
moved into that office, but I do know that there were only so many
office suites available just then. Maybe another office location would be
cheaper or provide more prestige. That isn't going to get them to move
unless the difference is immense; the cost of moving is too great. Why,
you'd have to have your cards reprinted."

"That isn't the cost they're worrying about, but yeah. And that's not
even considering the tsar's thumb."

"Professor Kindle, who's a great guy, told us that story as a warning.
It's extreme, but the president of your company may be determined to
move somewhere that's more convenient for him. Maybe he doesn't
have the power, but some presidents and chairmen do. And the
prestige might be worth something to your company, but not as much
as it's worth to the board. Anyway, there are non-economic forces at
work at any time. And there is always the force of
the-way-we've-always done it. So the predictions only go so far.

"I'm interested in the field, and it's a relatively new field. That means
that
I won't have so many grey heads standing in the way of my promotion if
I get on a faculty. On the other hand, too many of the studies, not
Kindle's but others', are closer to the micro 'This is the way it is in
theory, why look at messy facts?' than to the macro 'Here are the
numbers, let's see what theory could explain them.'  So, the difference
in approach of micro people and macro people is very close to what
keeps me up at night."

"And you think me one of the micro people. I'm really not." And all this
began about him! What an egotist he must think her.

"I'm sorry. This started about you, and I switched it to about me."

"That's no problem. I'd rather hear about your worries than about my
faults." She had to laugh at that.

"And I don't think you're a microeconomist. You work in the real world
and look at real numbers, as you've pointed out. I do think that what
you know of economics is micro. What you think of as economics is
micro. And, thus, when I say I'm doing economics, you hear that my
head is in the clouds. On the other hand, when you think of what is
plain about macro is really distortions that the micro guys spread.

"Sure, if bad times led to a drop in prices, the economy would react to
recessions the way they say. But, in case you didn't notice, these bad
times didn't. In fact, no drop in demand since the Great Depression has
led to a drop in prices."

"Yeah, but that's because there hasn't been a drop in wages. That's the
problem with propping up wages through welfare, unions, minimum
wage laws, and the like."

"But, you see, micro predicts that a drop in demand will lead to a drop
in prices even if there isn't a drop in wages. People want fewer widgets
because they're buying more gadgets. widget productions drops,
widget workers go make gadgets. Classical theory predicts that widget
prices will fall, even though wages don't -- the workers are still getting
jobs, you see, only making gadgets not widgets. Anyway, a drop in
demand for widgets should lead to a drop in price for widgets even
without a drop in wages for widget workers. And it doesn't."

"Well..." He looked unconvinced. She really needed a blackboard. For
that matter, he needed a semester of classical economics in his head.
Whatever he'd got leading to the MBA was long ago. He'd only
remembered the conclusions. On the other hand, he was being polite. It
wasn't <b>really</b> his idiot opinions, she'd objected to. It was the
smug way he'd asserted them. And he was neither smug nor asserting
them now.

"Look," he said totally changing the subject, "when is your last exam?"

"Two weeks from next Tuesday." And she should be studying for it.
Well, not for it, but for earlier exams.

"And are you going back home afterwards, or staying in town?"

"Clearing out."

"Want me to drive you back to your dorm?"

"Yeah." Actually, that was what <b>she<b> should be suggesting. She
finished the burger and drank half the Coke while he drove her to the
residence hall. She retrieved her ruined umbrella when he let her out in
front.

She decided to call her Regional-Econ paper, "From the Chicago River
to O'Hare." Most of the paper dealt quite particularly with the
influences that made Chicago the hub of the nation's railroad system.
She had a brief section in the beginning on the influence of the lake port
on the rise of population and a brief section at the end on the influences
of population, location, and freight terminals for the railroad system on
making it an air-transport hub.

This was the wrong time to expand the paper, however. It interfered
with cramming for finals. She sang in church every sunday, but she cut
the June coffee hour and the last Choir rehearsal. Miss Armbruster was
understanding. She'd had students before, had others in the choir then.

Despite everything, she felt that she did all right on the exams. They
drained her, however. The last exam was Tuesday morning. She
collapsed after lunch, got up for a late supper, and started packing. At
midnight, she went back to sleep. The next morning, she woke to the
alarm she hadn't reset. Wednesday afternoon, she was finishing her
packing when she heard her name being called from the hall phone. She
picked up the receiver.

"Carolyn Nolan."

"This is Bill Pierce." Well, he was still interested. "You're finished with
your exams, aren't you?"

"Yeah, yesterday."

"How would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow night?" Well, that
was impossible. But he was still interested, and that was good news,
because she was damn-well interested in him.

"I'm sorry. I won't be in town. I'm heading out to O'Hare in an hour.
We'll speak when I come back, though."

"I'm sorry to miss you." Not as sorry as she was, though. If she'd
known he would ask, she would have put off her return home. For that
matter, the schedule was too great a rush anyway. "Do you have any
idea how you did?"

"On the exams? I'm keeping my fingers crossed, but there weren't any
questions where I drew an absolute blank."

"That sounds good. Well, I'll let you go." And she returned to her
packing with a lighter heart.

She made it to O'Hare and to Arkansas. When Mama took her aside in
late August to ask about her romantic life, she confided her mood, if not
any details.

"My romantic life is definitely looking up."


The end
Get a Room-F
by Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com
These events from Bill's perspective:
/~Uther_Pendragon/Gjt/pie_01m.htm
Bill's perspective


For another story of a romance proceding slowly,
/~Uther_Pendragon/Gjt/sch_01f.htm
"Honey Bee"

The index to almost all my stories:
/~Uther_Pendragon/index.htm
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