Dan Wakefield - Starting Over - A Novel

Both sensations were brought back sharply by a sudden rap on the door.

“Come in!” he said sourly.

“Did I disturb you?”

Miss Linnett’s dreamy grey eyes looked moist and innocent.

“No, no,” said Potter, “sit down.”

She did, crossing her long, lovely legs and tugging her leather miniskirt the four or five inches that it reached down her thighs. She wore the mini-est miniskirts of any Potter had seen, and her twisting around in them and tugging at them during class often made him forget what he was saying, had said, and wanted to say.

“What can I do for you, Miss Linnett?”

Miss Linnett twisted a strand of her long, yellow hair, and launched into a long explanation of why she wouldn’t be able to hand her paper in on time. Potter didn’t really hear the details. He wondered if she had a boyfriend. A lover. Maybe many lovers. Maybe she was a real swinger. Maybe she had a crush on Potter.

Maybe she just wanted more time to do her paper. Or have it done for her. Maybe she wanted an A.

Potter gave her the extension she asked for. He would probably give her the A, too. After all, if she distracted him in class she also inspired him.

But, once again, he determined to stick to his hands-off-students policy. He was proud of this principle, but it was getting increasingly difficult, in fantasy if not yet in practice.

Potter did not stand up to walk Miss Linnett to the door when she left his office. He feared she might notice his embarrassingly noticeable hard-on.

As he watched the number of shopping days till Christmas dwindle, Potter found himself dreading the end of school. It was not just the specter of Christmas itself that he feared in his present condition, but the space of empty time, the two weeks of days without classes or office hours, opening before him like a deep and treacherous pit through which he must fall in order to land at the start of another new year and the relieving resumption of duties.

On the last day of classes before the vacation break, his PR seminar turned into an impromptu party. The students had got together and bought him a fifth of Cutty Sark for a Christmas present, a gift that indicated their knowledge of the bottle he kept in the drawer of his office desk and also their evident appreciation of his class. Potter was moved, feeling like a premature version of Robert Donat in Goodbye, Mr. Chips . He thanked the class, and, in the spirit of the occasion, proposed that instead of taking home his gift he share it with all of them right then and there. This daring proposal was greeted with cheers, and the peppy little Miss Patterson quickly brought back from the cafeteria a dozen styrofoam cups and two bags of Fritos.

It was a nice feeling. The pleasant anticipation of the students for the season almost upon them relieved Potter’s own apprehension, allowed him to share the warmth. They spoke of ski trips and parties, of going home to Schenectady or Cleveland, of hitchhiking to Florida. Halligan, the veteran who was waging a losing battle against his girlfriend’s marital offensive, admitted with a nervous grin that he was getting engaged over Christmas. There were hoots and cheers.

Ted Featherstone, an engaging young guy who had announced in the second session of the seminar that he was interested in public relations as it could be applied to selling things like peace and brotherhood, population control and universal health care, had come to class dressed in his usual outfit of Levis and motorcycle boots, and was also carrying a large rucksack.

“Where you heading?” Potter asked him.

“Oh. This commune where some friends of mine live.”

“Going there for Christmas?”

“For the Winter Solstice. That’s what they celebrate.”

“How do they celebrate it?” Foster B. Stevenson asked with an obvious edge of contempt. “Get stoned?”

Featherstone shrugged. “Some do, some don’t. On the actual day of the Solstice, people from neighboring communes come over and they have a real feast.”

“What do they live on, Rich Daddy money?” Halligan asked.

“Nope. Some have jobs in a neighboring town. Their farm’s over in the western part of the state. It seems real remote, but there are towns around. Also, they raise their own vegetables, of course. And some are musicians, they bring in a lot of bread. Like ‘The Sandman.’ You know, the guitarist? He signs all the profits of his albums over to the farm. If they can’t make a mortgage payment, he gets a gig.”

“What do the women do?” asked Myrna Seely, who was one of the few Women’s Movement activists at Gilpen.

“Everybody does their own thing,” Featherstone said.

“Yeah—and I bet I know what their own thing is—cooking and washing the goddamn dishes and all the rest of the menial shit.”

Featherstone only smiled, refusing to be drawn into battle.

Myrna finished off her drink and left, and the room broke up into groups of twos and threes. Potter had more Scotch and questioned Featherstone further about the commune. Potter had never been able to imagine himself living communally, for he cherished his privacy as much as he despised his loneliness. But he had always had a fascination about such experiments, understanding as he did the need of people to huddle together, any way at all, for mutual warmth and sustenance. Featherstone spoke of his friends’ commune in glowing terms, and said they even had “this older guy” who lived there, who used to be an architect, as if this would make the whole thing seem more plausible to Potter. After a few more Scotches, Potter accepted an invitation to visit the commune that very weekend, along with anyone he wanted to bring. Featherstone drew him a map.

Potter tried to convey his enthusiasm about the commune visit to Marilyn that night, but she seemed reserved, suspicious. Besides, she had lined up another party for them to go to on Saturday.

“Jesus,” Potter said, “it’ll just be the same.”

“Well, what’ll the commune be?”

“Different,” he said.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s something.”

On the way to the commune, Potter and Marilyn stopped in a supermarket to buy some supplies. It seemed only right that they get into the spirit of the thing by bringing food and drink to share. But once in the supermarket, Potter was confused about what would be appropriate. Marilyn picked out a big roast she thought would be nice.

“But what if they’re vegetarians?” Potter asked. “A lot of them are—I mean a lot of people who live on communes are, I don’t know if these people are, but they might be.”

“You should have asked.”

“Well, it’s too late now.”

They walked slowly up the aisles, staring vacantly at the bright rows of cans and bottles and jars, all of which seemed too fancy and commercialized to be suitable for a commune.

“If they’re vegetarians,” Marilyn said, “I guess we have to bring vegetables.”

“If they’re vegetarians, they probably grow their own. Besides, you can’t just take people a bushel of carrots.”

“Well, what the fuck can you take?”

“There’s no need to get excited. Try to be co-operative.”

Marilyn closed her eyes and sighed. “OK,” she said. “I’m trying. What about fish? Do fish count?”

“Hey, that’s great. I think you’re right. I think fish is all right.”

Potter purposefully pushed the empty cart to the fish section, and looked down at the selection, frowning. “These are all frozen,” he said.

“What did you expect? This isn’t Fisherman’s Wharf.”

“Is it all right for them to be frozen?”

“What the hell do you mean is it ‘all right’?”