Message-ID: <60837asstr$1292548202@assm.asstr.org>
From: Uther Pendragon <nogardneprethu@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} "Get a Room - F" (Uther) MF
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Date: Thu, 16 Dec 2010 20:10:02 -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 - M
by Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com

MF


Bill Pierce got to church early. The Hashimotos came in right after he did.

"You're the greeter?" he asked Nancy.

"Yep. Want to handle Alice while I handle Bulletins?"

"I'd be grateful." He picked Alice out of her car seat, being careful to
brace her neck. Lying on his arm, she grinned at him, and he grinned back.
Then he went out the door to walk the landing at the top of the outside
steps. She was dressed warmly and nearly surrounded by his body heat, and --
September or not -- it was a warm, bright, day. He greeted a few early
attenders, and they greeted Alice.

Then a college girl came up the stairs. She was new; he would have noticed
that impressive pair of melons if he'd seen it earlier. Still, he asked.

"First time?" She nodded. "Welcome. I'm Bill."

"Carolyn." She extended her hand, and he shook it. She had a pretty face and
lovely, black, shoulder-length, hair. Nice voice, too.

"And this is Alice." Carolyn and Alice exchanged grins. At the first notes
of the opening hymn, he took Alice back to Carl. They cooperated in
replacing her in the car seat, and he sat in a pew not to far away.

Bill half-way expected some parent to say, "You like my kid so much, then
<b>you</b> change him." None ever did, however. On the other hand, he
maintained a policy of being helpful to those parents who'd trusted him with
their kids. Drew Kindred was one of those. The next Sunday was coffee hour,
and Drew was changing Stan. Bill went to the other side of the table to talk
to Stan and hold his hands. When Drew had got him dressed again, he lifted
him and handed him over the table to Bill. Bill enjoyed the wriggling
toddler in his arms, if not as much as he'd enjoyed him last year. Stan
enjoyed it much less. Bill could tell that he would demand to be put down in
a minute. Still, that minute could be used.

He walked over to Carolyn. Women were much more comfortable when approached
by a man with a kid in his arms than when approached by a man without one.
Maybe they figured that guaranteed they wouldn't be groped.

"Carolyn, have you met Stan?" he asked. She hadn't. "And Stanford, this
pretty lady is Carolyn." Stan was too young to be interested in pretty
ladies. He wanted to run around. He let him down and admonished him to go to
Drew. That left Carolyn and Bill to carry on a conversation, and they did.
She made polite noises about the congregation -- not that she wouldn't
whatever she thought, but she had come back. She was an economics major, a
graduate student. He ushered her to the line, while continuing the
conversation. Then, before she could feel the need to get out of this guy's
clutches, he introduced her to the other graduate students who were sitting
at their own table and left her there.

Carolyn started singing in the choir. That meant he saw less of her, but she
was more likely to stick around. So he talked to her briefly and watched her
continually at coffee hour. He abided his time. Then, one rainy day, it
came. She had on a light dress, which showed her figure to good advantage,
not that anything would hide those melons. What the dress didn't provide was
much protection from the rain. He'd come prepared; he always did.

"That what you have for rain gear?" he asked her.

"What I have here." Which, perhaps, implied that she had more suitable
clothes at home. Much good that would do her. On the other hand, her
situation did him some good.

"'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." And, when he
honked, she ran out.

Gee, thanks," she said.

"Nothing. But I don't know where you live. What's the address." She told
him. He'd have liked to ask for her phone number, too. But that But that
would have been too much. "Settling into your studies? Midterms aren't
coming up are they?"

"Not really." Which meant that it was now or never.

"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." He held his breath, but not for
long.

"I'd be pleased." It had been that easy, after all his worry.  Now, he had a
date with the prettiest girl in the church. He'd make a reservation at
Manfredo's, not a place her fellow students could afford. But the idea of
reservations led to question of time. Students probably ate earlier than he
was used to.

"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." He was talking too much.

"Six thirty would be fine." Outside her dorm, they exchanged phone numbers.
He had her number, and a date. Now, all he had to do was not blow it.

"Thanks for the ride." She said.

"The pleasure was mine." And it had been.

Friday, he left the office precisely at five. He thought of himself as
management, not one of the clock watchers, but leaving on time occasionally
wouldn't spoil his reputation. He got home a few minutes after six. He
shaved and splashed on after-shave. Then, he called the number she'd given
him.

"Sixth floor," a girl answered. Oh yes, he'd lived in dorms, too.

"May I speak to Carolyn." The girl shouted the name, and he heard the
receiver brush against the wall.

"Carolyn Schneider speaking." Was that her name? It didn't sound at all like
her; the voice wasn't even pretty.

"This is Bill Pierce." How much would he have to explain? How much of an ass
would he sound like? Would the story be told often enough to get back to
Carolyn? There was a pause, then another voice, pretty even over the phone,
spoke.

"Hello?" It was Carolyn. Well, it was his Carolyn rather than the other.
Well, if not his yet, it was the Carolyn he wanted.

"Sorry, I'd forgotten what dorm phone service was like."

"I should have given you my last name. I didn't think." The girl was
thinking about what she should have done rather than about what he should
have done.

"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 he didn't have to. By the time he got there, she was already
waiting in the lobby. She was carrying a raincoat this time. Unfortunately,
she was wearing jeans. He had a reservation at Manfredo's, and they would
turn her away. Should he ask her to change? The church clothes would be
totally acceptable. It would be a horrible start to a date, though. Well, he
would be flexible.

"Do you like Chinese? Chinatown North, a section of Chicago, isn't too far
from here."

"Sure." Parking on Friday night wasn't great, but he had a choice of
restaurants he'd eaten in. The first one had only one couple ahead of them.
After he'd seated her, and they'd picked up the menus, she opened the
conversation.

"So, you manage to sell drugs which don't lie, cheat, or steal?" She'd
totally lost him. "What makes a drug ethical?" Oh!

"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."

She was ready to choose her own dishes, which pleased him. He hadn't enough
experience here to know which were the best. She was drawing him out, which
meant that she liked him. The problem withe men inviting and women accepting
or not was that you never knew whether she really wanted teh invitation, was
desperate from a change in menu, or felt that politely accepting was less
distasteful than turning down a guy who'd -- after all -- driven her home as
a favor. Anyway, he knew what part of a mostly-boring job was interesting.
And she didn't look bored.

When he drove her home, she stopped in the lobby. He moved to kiss her. She
didn't reject him, and he got the taste of her lips and the feel of her
melons against his chest. He felt himself hardening. If she felt it, too,
she made no objection. Saturday, he called to thank her and hear her voice
again. He still wanted to take her to Manfredo's. Well, all it took was a
little planning.

He was carrying Alice again during coffee hour in church. She was more
active now, and his carrying her was more of a service to Carl and Nancy. He
stopped by where Carolyn was sitting.

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

"The pleasure was mine." She sounded like she meant it.

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

"I'd be pleased." At which point, Alice started squirming. The girl had no
respect for the laws of gravity. He nodded his goodbye, and walked off fast
enough to give Alice the motion she wanted. He got a reservation at
Manfredo's for Sunday at one o'clock.

They actually got there a little early. They talked about the church and
what she called "his babies" while they waited.

"They aren't mine. I just borrow them. Don't you think that they're cute?"
At that point, they got their table. Carolyn seemed happy, and was still in
the draw-him-out mode. He was willing enough; he'd done better in economics,
and enjoyed it more, than most of his classmates. On the other hand, that
level of enjoyment wasn't a particularly high bar.

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

"Not often. Replacing the windshield they break to get the case is the
representative's responsibility. Only slow learners replace two
windshields." Showing her that he understood the economist's rule of
changing behavior through economic incentives. "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."

And they went on from there as far as that subject fit into a dinner-date.
Then they got onto the poor economic conditions. He knew what the problem
was, and it always amazed him that papers talked about other causes. Since
she was taking training in economics, she should agree.

"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." But she didn't agree. She, in fact, disagreed quite
harshly.

"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." That
was too much. He couldn't bite his tongue.

"Well, it's what you're in your first quarter of studying. I have an MBA,
and I studied it all."

"In the first place, I may have just begun my <b>graduate</b> study of
macroeconomics," she interrupted, "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." That was
putting him down. He forgot that she was a pretty girl, and went after her.

"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 was unconvinced.

"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." He then got control of his tongue. They didn't go back to the
subject, but he felt he'd spoiled this date. When he'd taken her back to her
dorm, she proved that. She avoided his kiss.

And she didn't cool down. The next few times he saw her in church, she
seemed to be avoiding him. He let her alone except for testing the waters
occasionally. Every week he could hear her voice, and every month he could
see her at coffee hour. Somehow, that increased his frustration. He'd been
right about what he'd said, but he became convinced that he'd been wrong to
say it. He'd certainly been wrong to blow off like that on a great date.

That didn't keep him from blowing off at other times, though. Maybe the
frustration made him likelier to do so. One coffee hour, he'd been admiring
a baby new to the church when Dan Hagopian came over. Dan was on the
committee to deal with new visitors, and was interested in the one who had
learned to talk, so Bill went his way. Soon after, he heard Ruth Schweib,
one of the soft-headed graduate students say something about the inadequacy
of the level of welfare. He expressed his frustration at having his tax
dollars spent on welfare cheats. He might have expressed that frustration
rather more loudly than was absolutely necessary, but Carolyn was at the
same table, and she was ignoring him. Not long after he'd finished, Dan
walked over.

"Nice shoes," he said. "Who tied them for you?" Crazy question.

"You bats? I tied them myself."

"You sure didn't sound bright enough to tie your own shoes five minutes ago.
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..." He sure didn't mean that woman, not with her sweet
baby.

"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."

Dan had been too loud -- well, he'd been too loud first, but he suspected
that Dan's loudness was deliberate. He was infuriated for the rest of the
day. Then he thought. He'd lost a lot more than the chance to hold another
baby by expressing his opinions inappropriately. The next Sunday, he went
over to Dan after church.

"We need to talk."

"So talk."

"Longer than this. Let Gladys drive home, and I'll take you home. We can
talk in my car."

"Okay." And so they went to the Packard. He didn't start the car.

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Last week. You said I talked inappropriately."

"I'm sorry." He wasn't sorry. He trying to maintain a friendship.

"Thing is, I might have talked when it was even more inappropriate." He told
the story of mouthing off on a date that turned into a last date.

"Carolyn?" That was a detail he'd omitted.

"Yeah."

"Something happened between you two, and people can tell. Let me think."
There was a long pause. "You know, asking a professor to talk when he's
sitting in a car really limits him. We talk standing up. Anyway...

"Go back a bit. You boss a crew of salesmen." That was a fairly patronizing
job description, but he'd come there to listen. "How much of that selling
had you done when you were put in charge?"

"I put two months in the field."

"Having been already hired as an executive. You weren't a spectacularly
successful salesman?"

"Representative, and it doesn't work that way." Representatives didn't have
records of how many prescriptions their doctors ordered.

"But you had listened to a lot of professors talk, and that put you in
charge of people who'd had years of practical experience in selling."

"There's more to an MBA than listening to professors."

"There's more to any degree than listening. Which is fortunate, considering
how few seem to listen. My point is that you're in charge of the level where
the real practical work is done. You expect to go higher. That's because you
have a better education than those guys have. And then, you put down someone
who's getting an education because your work is closer to the ground. And
it's not on the ground. You don't make pills; you don't even sell pills. You
boss guys who sell pills. You know how steel workers vote?"

"The way their union bosses tell them."

"That's my field, Bill. That's terribly simplified. Back when coal miners
almost worshiped John L. Lewis, Lewis turned against the Roosevelt.
Coal-mine regions didn't. Anyway...

"People who have more education than you should listen to you because your
experience is more nearly practical. People who have more practical
experience than you should listen to you because you have more education.
But you don't have any respect for the opinions of the people with more
practical experience, like steel workers and coal miners. You don't have any
respect for the opinions of people with more education like PhDs and grad
students. You have the epitome which makes your opinions gold.

"Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, for some deep psychologically weird
reason, some people are delusional enough to perceive that as arrogance."

"Some people including you and Carolyn?"

"I can't speak for Carolyn. Maybe, if you sincerely ask her for her honest
opinion and listen to it, she might tell you.." Which dodged the question
whether Dan thought him arrogant. Which clearly meant that he did.

"Well I'm not sure that she has more education than I do. I have a master's;
she doesn't yet have a doctorate."

"Well, I have a doctorate. She knows more economics than I do, and I took
economics courses. The world is full of people who say that they know the
theory as well as the theoreticians but know the practics, too. There are a
few poli-sci PhDs running campaigns, and they could make that claim --
though even they probably don't keep up with the lit. Generally, the claim
is bogus. You have the economic theory which is needed to learn the business
theory that is the grounding for your practical work. The business theory
doesn't qualify you to teach in the B school of the U of C. The economics
sure-as-hell doesn't. Apply for teaching post at some university and see if
they give you an interview."

"Well, maybe so, but I wasn't saying anything that my professors weren't."

"I'll buy that, and not only at the B School. The economics department at
the U of C is notorious for it's conservative views. But you weren't saying
what <b>her</b> professors were saying. There is a debate in that
profession. There are debates, lots of debates, in every profession."

"So it comes down to what her professors were saying as opposed to what my
professors were saying?"

"To some degree. Also, the professors have arguments and data to support
their positions. If she's any good in her field, certainly if she's ever
going to turn out a dissertation, she knows the arguments and can find the
data to support her professors' opinions. " That rang a bell.

"She said something about the president's report on the economy."

"<i>The Economic Report of the President.</i>, an annual that comes in three
sections. The first is prepared by the president's Council of Economic
Advisors. It's signed by the president, but that pretense doesn't go beyond
the signature. You know, those Christmas letters that are signed by the
whole family but the wife is 'I' and the husband is 'George'? Anyway, the
first section tells how wonderfully the administration's economic policies
are working. Even in bad years it tells how wonderfully they're working. The
second section tells all about the Council of Economic Advisers. The third
section is full of economic statistics going back decades. People,
academics, actually read the third section, I don't know of anyone who does
more than glance at the first two, although somebody must be interested in
what the Council of Economic Advisers is doing. I could tell you where to
buy a copy. You could actually read the data. Then you would have the data
to argue with her intelligently." That didn't sound like a way to get
Carolyn over her anger.

"Well, thanks." He'd already known that he had stepped in it. Dan had told
him how he'd stepped in it. He drove Dan home. Maybe, if he listened while
Carolyn told him how he'd stepped in it, they could start over. He liked the
girl, and -- he had to admit now -- it was more than the melons that he
liked. But she didn't seem to be getting over her anger. She sang a solo,
and he complimented her. That, at least, should have brought a smile. It
didn't.

One problem was that the whole damn church knew about his feelings for
Carolyn. Any of the single women he asked on a date would feel like a second
choice. And he didn't date in the office. Some of the representatives and
clerks did, but executives didn't, and that policy had been laid out when he
started. So, where was he going to get dates?

Business, at least, was going fine. He was promoted to regional sales
manager, a position that brought him a real office and a secretary. Miss
Flaherty sat in the larger room, but her desk was right outside his office
door. She was pretty, but the rule against dating employees would go double
against dating your own secretary. However, the rule didn't mention
ex-employees.

"Denise, do you have any contact with Maureen Spann, who used to work here?"

"Yes, we have lunch together on birthdays and such."

"Well, I don't want to force you to betray a confidence. Why don't you tell
her that I asked for her home phone number the next time you talk to her. If
she's willing, then you give it to me." Denise looked like she was hiding a
smile. "I know. Sounds just like high school, doesn't it? But, in high
school, I could walk up to the girl myself if I wasn't scared to."

At the price of a little gossip, he got the phone number. And the gossip
wasn't a complete negative. Anyway, he called.

"Maureen? This is Bill Pierce from back at Andalusia Pharmaceuticals.
Nothing to do with that, it's just that I remember you from back then. I was
wondering whether you would be willing to have dinner after work some
night."

"Why thanks, Bill."

"Where do you work now?"

"I'm at Harris Bank."

"In the Loop, then?" If she worked in the main offices she would be. They
had branches all over, and he didn't know how many secretaries, as opposed
to tellers and such, worked in the branches.

"Yes."

"Would this Wednesday do? Say 5:30?"

"That would be fine." They arranged to meet at the entrance to her building,
and Bill checked which entrance she used.

The date went fine. Maureen lived on the North side, as he learned at
dinner. They took the El home together, but he rode on to Howard after she
got off at Argyle. They had other dates. He took her to the movies, driving
in that day, taking her to dinner afterwards, driving her home, and kissing
her on her doorstep.

When he took her to Manfredo's for lunch on a Saturday in June, she was
willing to return to his apartment afterwards for a drink. They had
Manhattans on the couch of his living room. He could taste the cocktail on
her lips when he kissed her.

"Sweet Maureen." He began to unbutton her blouse. She didn't stop him. When
he'd got the bra undone and petted her for a while, he removed both and
leaned back for a better look. Without the distraction of his kiss, and with
his gaze so openly on her, she started to move her hands up to cover her
melons.

"Don't. You're as pretty as I pictured you back then." But not, some corner
of his mind reminded him, as buxom as Carolyn was.

"You looked at me?"

"Probably everybody looked at you. I tried not to be obvious." He went back
to kissing her. Now, his hands had free access to her above the waist. For a
while, she held his head against her as they kissed. When he moved his
kisses downward towards her melons, she stroked his face, his arms, and then
his leg. Her destination was obvious. He broke away and sat up. He rose and
reached a hand down for hers.

"We'd be more comfortable in there." He nodded towards his closed bedroom
door. She gave him her hand, and he helped her up. They left her blouse,
bra, and shoes in the living room. When had she removed her shoes?

In the bedroom, he kissed her again while they were standing. His hands went
down her back to her ass while his chest appreciated her melons. He pulled
her against him until her stomach was grinding against his hardon.

"Let's take care of our own," he suggested when he stepped back. He started
on his tie. She got her skirt, half slip, and pantyhose off before he was
down to his underwear. She lay on the bed and watched him.

"Doesn't skin feel better?" he asked when he lay down beside her. Hers
certainly felt better, her melons under his lips, her leg against his leg
and his hardon, her ass under his hand.

"Ihm hmm." She stroked his hair. He passed his right hand up to her far
melon, which he'd been neglecting. (His left hand was out of the action
since he was lying on that elbow.) Then he stroked down over her stomach to
her delta. When he pushed against her leg, she spread it enough to give his
hand access.

He sucked on the tip of her melon while he rubbed up her furrow. He pushed
two fingers into her tunnel to test its openness and lubrication. Both were
inviting, but he went upward to her nub.

"Oh," she said. He licked the tip while he stroked the nub. Then, when she
seemed to be getting there, he started sucking the tip again. He rubbed his
finger in a circle around her nub. When he rubbed it directly again, she
went over with another "oh."

He reached over to grab a rubber out of the drawer in the night stand. He
rolled it down his dick. Then he knelt with his face right above hers.

"Maureen, lovely Maureen, say yes." Actually, she didn't say anything, but
her hand stroked down his stomach to grasp his dick. As he moved his body
into position she led his dick to her snatch. He pushed into her tunnel.

She felt warm and smooth around him. He shifted to put his left hand on her
melon while he grasped her ass with his right. As he thrust in, she raised
her delta to meet him. He felt her ass tighten. As he moved out, she sank
back onto the bed. Her ass softened in his hand.

It had been too long. He couldn't wait for her to go over a second time. He
came with a gush. He lay on her for minute, enjoying the softness beneath
him. Then he rolled off and began stroking her body again.

"You are so lovely," he said.

"Thanks." She started to get up.

"Thank <b>you</b>. Do you want a shower?"

"I probably should."

"I'll go after you. We'll go out somewhere else to eat dinner." And they
did, after watching some TV. Saturday afternoon doesn't have the best
programming for adults, but they paid more attention to each other.

He'd certainly enjoyed himself, and she seemed to have enjoyed herself, too.
They fell into a pattern, Wednesday night movies -- occasionally, a play --
Saturday afternoon lunch and dinner at different restaurants with leisurely
love in between. That meant that he drove into work on Wednesdays, but it
was well worth it. After the first few times, he started choosing movies and
restaurants between the loop and her apartment on Wednesdays and between his
apartment and hers on Saturdays. There were a lot of choices. Covertly, he
observed a rhythm in her responses to him. It must be her periods. He never
mentioned it, and he felt a little guilty, but it was intriguing as bell.
For one thing, he knew she was sexiest half-way between her periods.

One Wednesday in late August, he drove her home as usual. The movie had been
romantic, and they'd shared a bottle of wine over dinner. His kiss in the
entranceway of her apartment building was enthusiastic, and her response was
more enthusiastic. He felt her hand on his dick through his trousers.

"Come up," she said. "My roommates are gone." That sounded great, even
though he wasn't prepared. For that matter, she'd known her roommates would
be gone. She might have bought some rubbers as a surprise for him. It would
certainly fit her sexiness at this point of her cycle.

In her apartment, she took his suit coat and tie. After a long kiss, he
started stripping her.

"Not here," she said and led him to her bedroom. When he returned to her
blouse, she started on his shirt. Naked to the waist, he knelt on the floor
to remove what clothes she still wore. She ruffled her hand though his hair
while he peeled down her pantyhose. When she lay on her bed, he kissed both
her melons and stroked her delta. She spread her legs immediately. She
rubbed his dick again before pulling at his belt.

"Lose those," she said.

"Um, I didn't come prepared."

"I'm safe." Well, if so, why not. He reached for his belt, but had another
thought. She <b>wasn't</b> safe. He knew that she was near her most fertile
point.

"Let's go a little slower," he said. "Ladies before gentlemen." He began
kissing her again, and reached for her snatch. He rubbed her nub before
inserting two fingers in her tunnel. She was plenty wet down there, but it
was her lubrication, not blood. He rubbed up and down her furrow before
returning his finger to her nub. He sucked her melon while rubbing there
until she went over. This time, he didn't stop. He merely switched melons
while continuing to rub her there. When she reached a hand towards his dick,
he grabbed her wrist with his left hand. They were struggling more than
loving when she went over again. He continued to rub her nub, but she pushed
his hand away.

"No! That's too much!" He stood up and started to put on his shirt.

"Well, I'm sorry. I think I have to be going." He carried his undershirt,
tie, and coat down the stairs and to his car. She was hardly dressed for
pursuing him.

He didn't know whether she'd tried to entrap him or had just got carried
away in the moment. Should he cut the ties right now? Should he just drop
her? But she was Denise's friend. He suspected that some report of their
activities got back to Denise. Through her, they could circulate through the
entire female side of the company. For that matter, Maureen probably had
other friends who still worked for Andalusia. If he did go on, though, he'd
keep a rubber in his clothes when he dated her. He decided to call her the
next evening.

"Hello." He recognized her voice, but she didn't carry over the simplest
part of business telephone etiquette to her personal life. She didn't
identify herself.

"Maureen? This is Bill. I wanted to thank you for the date last night."

"I don't know why you should thank me for what you turned down cold."

"I had the pleasure of your company at the movie and for dinner." There was
a long pause. "I was wondering if you could come out for dinner Saturday
night." That was a change, but not something she could complain about.

"I'm sorry, Bill, but I'm busy that night."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe we'll talk again."

"Maybe. Good night." Which meant that she hoped that they wouldn't. Well,
that ended his problem. He'd been rejected.

"Good night."

Speaking of rejections, when Northwestern started up a few weeks later,
Carolyn was back at Aldersgate. Soon, she was back in the choir and talking
in a friendly fashion to almost everyone at coffee hour. He was the
conspicuous exception, but he could appreciate her singing voice and her
beauty from a distance.

Alice, on the other hand, wasn't really rejecting <b>him</b>. She, indeed,
was happy to talk to him. That was no great compliment as she was perfectly
happy to talk to her doll if nobody else was around. Sometimes in preference
to people trying to talk to her. The doll understood her about as well as
Bill did. What Alice rejected was being carried. She now walked, or
staggered, on her own two feet. this was a great adventure, and she rejected
any limits on it. Sometimes, the two of them would go into the back of the
church, the "narthex," during the sermons. She sometimes rejected, and
sometimes welcomed, his hand. Nancy and Carl trusted him to keep her from
killing herself. Her murmurs to her doll, were usually -- if far from always
-- soft enough to escape any of the congregation who weren't sitting in the
back few pews. Those who were bothered should just have sat further forward.


Ray and Lily Bell had adopted a daughter, Beatrice, but they seldom were in
a mood to share. Bill suspected that they thought that adoption required
them to take full responsibility. For all he knew, adoption law did. Stan
was in the terrible twos, and Drew and Mildred took to keeping him home.
Bill started taking surreptitious peeks at the waistline of the young
married women, but none of them looked promising.

Alice found running even more adventurous than walking had been. And people
would play tag with her if they wanted something she had. At the December
coffee hour, she was having a great time avoiding Nancy and Carl. Bill was
hanging far enough back from the grad-student table that he wasn't intrusive
but close enough that he could both see and hear Carolyn. He leaned forward
to put his cup down on the table, but carefully didn't look towards Alice.
When he heard the pounding of little feet (pitter-patter was either
somebody's imagination or one of the glories of the past which had
disappeared in the present) about to pass him, he pounced. He held a
squirming Alice far enough away until she stopped kicking.

"Down!" she said. He folded her into his arms.

"Gee, thanks, Bill," said Nancy. "Now hold her while I get this on her." He
held Alice as closely as he could, but responded,

"Nope! Finders keepers -- losers weepers. I'm going to take Alice home with
me," he told Nancy. She looked a little tightly wrapped just then, and
needed a touch of humor. "Aren't I?" he asked  Alice. She nodded, whether
she understood the question or just agreed with his laughing tone. She was
in high good humor after her game of tag.

"For God's sake, Bill," Carolyn broke in. "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!" Well, the ice queen had actually noticed
him. He laughed -- half the sport with Alice, half the triumph with Carolyn.


"Look," said Nancy, "why don't the two of you get a room?" He was willing.
Apparently the ice queen wasn't. Oh well, at least he'd got a reaction from
her.

When Nancy had the coat on Alice, Carl came over and relieved him of his
squirming load. Nancy picked up the bottle bag.

"Really, Nancy..." Carolyn went on.

"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."

Nancy trailed after Carl. Maybe Carolyn would take out her frustration on
him. He was willing. She, apparently, was not. She turned to Brigit, another
grad student.

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

"Yes," Brigit answered honestly if diffidently. "Where was Bill sitting this
morning?" She paused. "And where was I sitting?" she said more strongly.
"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?" She got no answer. He waited for her to express
another opinion to him, but others at the table found another subject, and
Carolyn joined in. He moved away, but got his car early and was waiting
outside the door when she came out.

"Look," he said, "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." Well, that was better than
silence, but not much better.

"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..."

"And those are my good points," he finished for her. "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." That was unfair.

"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." So a male who remembered her melons was only
fulfilling the male function.

"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." Now, that sounded more promising.

"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?" People were
pretending not to look, but nobody was pretending enough to head home.

"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." With
which exit line, she strode off. Her buns, if less attractive than her
melons, were still a sexy sight. And the brisk stride, firming them with
every step, showed them off quite well. Somehow, he suspected that this gift
to him was unintentional

Well, he'd tried, and the offer was still on the table. He drove home. When
Carolyn, and the other students if that mattered, were back from Christmas
vacation, he started changing his pew in church. Like most of the
congregation, he had a usual place. But, if Brigit thought that Carolyn
noticed where he sat -- and she hadn't denied that -- he'd give her
something to notice.

Alice had decided that he was another player in the game of tag. He didn't
mind playing with her, but she could escape him until she fell down. As he
didn't want her to fall down, he let her taunt him while he pretended
indifference. She was so involved with this that she didn't see her father
approaching. Just before she might, he lunged, she squealed, wheeled, and
ran into Carl's legs.

"Thanks, Bill," he said scooping her up. He and Nancy wrestled her into her
coat and took her away.

"Changed sides, Bill?" asked Ruth Schweib from the grad-student table. "I
though you were always on the kids' side." Not conspicuously against the
parents, he wasn't. You basically needed the permission of both kid and
parent to hold the kid.

"Nah!" he simplified. "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 broke in. "Terrible that
the rest of us have to study things to learn about them." She was now
noticing him, if only to criticize. Well, he now understood why a previous
generation had dipped girls' pigtails in ink pots. It was better to be
criticized by the prettiest girl in the room than to have her ignore you.

"Now, Carolyn, however inadequate you think my study of economics, you can't
deny that I've spent plenty of time studying Alice." He thought that this
might lead to a longer conversation, but it didn't. Her coffee looked like
she'd need a refill soon. He walked up to the serving table and talked to
Molly. Let Carolyn approach where he was standing for once. She didn't.

He and Nancy weren't the only people who noticed that Carolyn was trying to
avoid him. At the next coffee hour, he was standing not far from the grad
student table, nursing a cup of coffee, when one of the students asked him a
question.

"You've been around for a while, haven't you Bill?" Harold Liggins, who'd
asked, was sitting right beside Carolyn.

"Not too long." It was bad enough for Carolyn to think of him as an
unperson, she didn't have to think of him as an ancient unperson. "I joined
in '63. Everybody who came here before you looks like part of the
furniture."

"Still, you've seen some changes," Ruth Schweib said. She was sitting on the
other side of Carolyn. Soon, he was in a conversation with those two, and
standing right behind Carolyn. He was enjoying his position too much to
understand how much it was bothering her, until she asked someone else to
get her a cup of coffee because she was hemmed in. Instead, he got the
coffee. Half spoon of creamer, heaping spoon of sugar. That much sugar would
give her diabetes; too bad it didn't sweeten her disposition.

"Tell me if it's too sweet." She tasted it.

"Just right, thanks." Well, he'd got a friendly word from her. As a reward,
he stopped hemming her in. He suspected that Ruth and Harold had started the
conversation to discomfit Carolyn. It hadn't been sudden curiosity of the
church's history; neither approached him later for more information. It
hadn't been to provide him an excuse for closeness; they were interested in
their fellow student, Carolyn, not in the old fossil, Bill.

At that age, Alice was more interested in stairs than in anything else. She
was too young to be safe on them alone. Their compromise was for her to hold
his thumb while his other fingers wrapped securely around her wrist. She
might not like the contact, but it was a price she was willing to pay for a
period of going up and down stairs. They were climbing the outside church
stairs, an especially fun set, while Carl got his car. Carolyn came over to
talk to Nancy. Fine, not even Carolyn could fault him for returning Alice to
her mother.

"See the pretty lady talking with mommy?" he asked at the top of the stairs.
Alice spared them a quick glance, but she was more interested in going down
again. As they neared the bottom, Carl drove up. That entailed a brief
struggle -- Alice was much more interested in going up the stairs than in
going home. As he was dragging Alice over to the car, Carolyn spoke.

"Hello, Alice."

"Say 'hi' to the pretty lady," he told Alice.

"Hi, Prillay." Somehow, this upset Nancy, or maybe she thought of something
which had to be done.

"Well, we're out of here, and out of this. We'll see you later." She said
after shoving Alice into the car seat. She got in the front, and they drove
off.

"Bill how could you?" Carolyn said. What had he done now? Walked Alice? Oh
the 'pretty lady.' "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?" Now he'd stepped in it. He was supposed to notice nothing
below her neck. That rule was idiotic, but he knew it.

"That's what I <b>don't</b> 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." That didn't get him
off.

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

"Just what is the subject?" Aside from how horrible he was.

"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." And he stopped talking. He wanted to look at her, and he did. If she
wanted it to be in silence, that seemed a fair compromise. She, however,
didn't keep the silence.

"Last week, I found Alice sitting on the stairs leading up from the
basement." That sounded serious.

"Alone? She shouldn't have been on stairs alone. Did she fall?"

"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."

"She got that 'Prillay' from you." Oh. Well in a certain sense, she had.

"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." Not
talking to her was something she might demand reasonably, not mentioning her
was going too far.

"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."
Well, at least, language practice was one of he services that he afforded
parents in exchange for the company of their children.

"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 you claim that the reason you talk to Alice is that it's good for her."
Not really, he had claimed that it was 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?" What was the basis of this interrogation? Well, it was a
conversation, and he wanted a conversation with Carolyn.

"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." That was overstating it. He tried to be a positive
influence -- often only slightly positive. Parents could feel that leaving
kids with him did their kids some good.

"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?"

When she didn't answer, he continued. "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." She stalked off again. Again, this afforded a great
view of her buns.

The next week, there was a gentle rain at 11:00 and a downpour with wind
shifting every second when church got out at noon. He saw Carolyn unfold one
of those fancy umbrellas which could be folded into a compact shape. She
went out the door ahead of him while he was making sure that his trench coat
was secure and opening his adult umbrella. He was about to offer drives to
their cars to some of those clustered in the doorway when Carolyn came back
with her contraption in ruins. He thought fast.

"Look," he told her, "if you're not scared of me, I'll be back with the car
in a second." He ran to where his car was parked -- parking was always a
problem around Aldersgate and the early birds got the less wormy spots. When
he drove up, she got in. She wasn't happy, but you couldn't have everything.

"Scared of you?" she asked. "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?" Well, if she wanted to lambaste him, she'd get
her chance. Maybe it would cool her down. Anyway, with her attention on his
wrongs, she wouldn't notice where he was going. Instead of north, towards
her dorm, he turned south. He'd offered her a hamburger to go with her
bawling out, and he'd make that offer again.

"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 Alice 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 behaved 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?"

"Where are we going anyway?" Now she noticed.

"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. Shake?" He finished. They were now in line. Salesman's rule,
always let your customer decide something minor. That decision makes the
whole contract their decision.

"Coke."

"Two big Macs and a large coke." He told the girl at the window. When he had
the order, he noticed how little room she had on her lap. "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 Alice called you 'pretty lady.'" By this
time, he'd parked in the far end of the MacDonald lot.

"No the worst thing about you is your arrogant ignorance." She was back on
what he was, now.

"Which was shown?"

"By claiming to know everything about economics, when you don't know jack
shit." Well, while she was exaggerating, she had a point. Dan had suggested
the same thing.

"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." Now, she was backing down.

"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. 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." Which wasn't quite true, and the inaccuracy
threw him off the point she was making.

"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." Now, he
saw her point.

"But," she continued, "that isn't what I wanted to say." Just when he'd been
about to agree.

"I'll listen." Listening might get him somewhere. Talking sure-as-hell
hadn't. Well, it had got him in the doghouse.

"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?"

"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. There just aren't all that many actual auction markets
setting prices in this economy."

"There's the stock market." She was losing him again.

"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." She was, presumably, planning to be a professor. She
might be learning economics, she sure hadn't learned how to teach it. She'd
lost him completely.

"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." She
sounded like she was more desperate about her classes than mad at him.

"You sound like you're getting to the end of the term."

"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 right above
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." Now she was off him and onto her field.

"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 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."
Didn't engineers run trains? Did they also plan the routes? "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?" Now she
was off his faults entirely. Was she going to go back to how stupid he was
if he didn't know Russian geography?

"At Moscow?" Not by the way she was looking. Well, there was only one other
sensible guess. "At Saint Petersburg?" She shook her head.

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

"Really?" Sounded ludicrous, ludicrous enough to be true.

"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." Then she
took a breath and veered again.

"But I've been telling you about the pothole before you've seen the road."

"You did have me rather lost, there," he told her. "Although the tsar story
was one I'll remember. I'm glad to hear it wasn't <b>just</b> my density."
She didn't say that he wasn't dense. On the other hand, she didn't say he
was either.

"Your office is in the loop, and it doesn't have all that many employees?"
Another jump. What's 'all that many'?

"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 willing to pay the
price left out. Very simple application of economics, but..." First she
called him a simpleton, then she summarized a quarter's course work and
expected him to comprehend. Well, he was having a conversation with her, and
she wasn't listing his faults.

"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 was cute.

"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," -- a description of her professor
which did not please him, but he hoped he suppressed his jealousy before she
could notice it -- "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. 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." But he'd been
claiming that his economic training was as good as hers.

"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." That got him a laugh.

"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." The way she veered from one topic to another had left him
dizzy. He had heard a little about the last, though.

"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." She was certain, and -- as Dan had
suggested -- she had arguments for her certainty. Still, she could have been
talking Greek for all that he understood of the last.

"Well..." Maybe they could have more discussions, slower discussions about
only one point.

"Look, when is your last exam?"

"Two weeks from next Tuesday." And until then, she was under intense
pressure.

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

"Clearing out." So he should ask her for a date the day after the last exam.
They could go from there.

"Want me to drive you back to your dorm?" And, so, he did. She was calmer.
He figured that they were friends again. When the pressure was off, they
might well be a dating couple again.

In church, while they hardly spoke, she was civil when they did. Carolyn
skipped the June coffee hour, but so did most of the students. He was
waiting. Her last exam was Tuesday. He waited -- the last days of exams
wouldn't improve her temper.

Wednesday afternoon, he called from work. He had a private phone, and
personal calls at his level weren't actively discouraged. On the other hand,
he should be setting a good example to his subordinates -- he did this by
making few of them. This one was worth making an exception. He'd invite her
out for the next night. If she agreed, he'd give her her choice of
fanciness. He'd known guys who didn't shave for exam week. Maybe she'd
prefer something she didn't have to dress up for. Maybe she'd be sick of
grunginess. For a Thursday, he'd probably be able to get a reservation at
Manfredo's.

"Hello." Telephone etiquette wasn't part of the Northwestern core
curriculum.

"Carolyn Nolan please." He heard the name shouted and the receiver brush
against the wall. He pictured it swinging from the phone.

"Carolyn Nolan." She, at least, identified herself on the phone.

"This is Bill Pierce. You're finished with your exams, aren't you?"

"Yeah, yesterday."

"How would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow night?" Or, to put it
another way, have you forgiven me enough to try me again.

"I'm sorry. I won't be in town." And, before he could even think of the
tonight loophole, she closed it. "I'm heading out to O'Hare in an hour.
We'll speak when I come back, though." Which was very clear. She was his
church friend. They would speak in church, and speak civilly. She was
certainly being civil now, unlike the 'not if you were the last man on
earth' line. But she was not his girl friend, and she was not going to be.
Well, a polite excuse was a major improvement. It just wasn't the
improvement he wanted.

"I'm sorry to miss you." If she could be civil, he should be, too. "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 he let his dreams of you go,
too.

With summer coming on and certainty of a chilly school year, he should date.
Denise already knew too much of his business. He didn't want somebody else
she knew. He thought of Ruth Deeds, a recent divorcee in the church. She
agreed to go out with him for dinner.

"I really don't understand the dating game these days," she told him over
dinner. "Greg and I got engaged at our senior prom. It was a long
engagement, but there was nobody else for me from long before that -- we
were sixteen when we began going steady -- until he left." He expressed
sympathy, thinking that she needed to decide whether she was on a date or
confiding her anxiety about dating. He had enough anxieties of his own, but
she wasn't going to hear them.

They got onto more pleasant subjects, though. When he stopped the car at her
door, he had decided to ask her out again sometime. He should probably date
someone else in between, though. He needed to be in the swim.

"Do you want to come up?" she asked. "Ron will be asleep." Was the
invitation what he thought? His dick twitched, but his mind raised a
warning. He was after a date, not an affair. And, he really didn't want an
affair with anyone who would offer like that. He wanted to be the hunter and
not the game. Instead, he walked her to the door and kissed her.

"I'd love to, but I've got things scheduled. Another time." And he drove
away.

It looked like a lonely summer.

The end
Get a Room - M
by Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com
2010/12/16
These events from Carolyn's perspective:
/~Uther_Pendragon/Gjt/pie_01f.htm
Carolyn's perspective


For another story of slowly-developing romance,
/~Uther_Pendragon/story/zee.htm

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