Postcards

There is a TV in the East Quad Lounge which is rarely watched. Today Roderick and a number of other students gather to see a live press conference broadcast on Washington County Community Cable. Robert "Bobby" Butts, nephew of the distinguished Congressman and mayor of Stapleton, will address the public on the urgent matter of emergency response to Hurricane Sandy.

The TV camera shows a podium set up in the parking lot of the E. Bigelow Butts Municipal Services Center, which was known as 'City Hall' until 1994, when the distinguished Congressman earmarked funds for wheelchair ramps and other improvements. While there are presently no residents of Stapleton who use wheelchairs, the ramps are quite popular with local skateboard punks, who own the premises after dark.

Behind the podium is an aging sign that reads:

This project funded by the American Recovery Act
Barack Obama, President

The sign refers to a project funded in 2009 to add nasturtiums to the flower beds around the flagpole in front of the Municipal Services Center. Work has not started pending completion of an Environmental Impact Assessment and an Economic Development Plan. The consulting firm of Butts and Co. are engaged to complete these essential planning documents, and expect to complete work in 2016.

The press, consisting of one reporter from the Stapleton Gazette and a cameraman from Washington County Community Cable, gather in the parking lot. Mayor Butts steps to the podium, accompanied by the Directors of Emergency Services, Law Enforcement, Fire Protection, Utilities and Intergovernmental Relations, plus two sign language interpreters, one for American Sign Language and one for Signing Exact English. Simultaneous translation of the broadcast will be provided in fifty-seven languages and dialects, although so far as anyone knows everyone in Washington County speaks English.

Mayor Butts clears his throat

" Ahem -- heh, heh, is this thing working?" (Sound of feedback). "OK,OK. Ahem. So I'm here today to talk about emergency response to the recent storm. As you know, city and county workers are working round the clock to restore services..."

The mayor pauses and listens to a whispered message from the Director of Emergency Services.

"Correction. City and county workers are working from nine to four with lunch break and two coffee breaks to restore city services. As of this moment, all city services are restored, since none were interrupted, so it's pretty much business as usual. However, there are reports that gusty winds blew some apples off the trees in West Puddleton, and the E. Bigelow Butts County Emergency Response Center is still flooded."

The E. Bigelow Butts County Emergency Response Center is in the basement of the building formerly known as the County Courthouse, and now used as a Visitor and Tourist Information Center.

"We have applied to FEMA for emergency grants to cover crop losses in West Puddleton and also to pump out the Emergency Response Center and replace all of the equipment."

Mayor Butts takes a question. The Stapleton Gazette wants to know what good is an Emergency Response Center if it's the only place that floods.

Roderick doesn't stick around to hear the answer. He has to run and coach Albert before Molly introduces him to Pamela.

Meanwhile, in Smileyville, Mr. Smiley -- who is suddenly aware that Roderick is wondering how he is doing -- sits down and writes a postcard.

Dear Roderick,

Clothilde and I hope you're doing well at school. We're doing fine.

Love,

Mr. Smiley

Clutching the postcard, Mr. Smiley drives into town to buy stamps, mail the postcard, pause for a Cafe Smiley -- which, as you may know, consists of warm chocolate milk topped with whipped cream and sprinkles -- feed the ducks, shop for cheese and buy a case of fresh postcards.

Smileys send a lot of postcards.

Inspiration

Tuesday. Roderick awakes, exits the bed and pads over to the dresser, where he withdraws one of the neatly folded white Oxford button-down shirts, threads his arms into the sleeves and fastens the buttons. Then he dons one of his identical pairs of khaki-colored pleated pants, a pair of argyle socks and casual shoes.

Roderick slept alone last night. He thinks this is preferable to sleeping with two companions given the size of his bed, but he misses Molly when she's absent for the evening.

On the way to the Dining Hall, Roderick sees the impact of Hurricane Sandy on the Old Ivy campus: leaves blown off trees, a couple of branches down and, at the far end of the Quad near the river, an entire tree down. Still standing tall: Thinking Tree, Kissing Tree and the nameless tree that shields other student activities.

Mr. Rothschild's History of Banking lectures have completed a survey of the ancient world and Byzantine banking; today, he covers the early Florentine banking families beginning in the twelfth century. The Peruzzi and Bardi companies built fortunes by trading in English wool woven in Bruges, tinted in Florence and marketed throughout the Mediterranean. They then loaned this wealth out to princes, popes and kings, a practice that continued for some years until Edward III of England defaulted on his loans, sending the Peruzzi and Bardi into bankruptcy in 1345.

"This is a common pattern in the history of banking," observes Mr. Rothschild. "People create wealth through skill and ingenuity, then lose it all by lending to the government. Margaret Thatcher once said that the problem with socialism is that 'sooner or later you run out of other people's money.' What she did not say is that when you do run out of other people's money, the first thing you do is default on your debts."

Roderick eats dinner with Molly, who spent the afternoon posing again for Mr. Splatter, the contemporary artist in residence.

"He wanted to smear chocolate all over me again," says Molly, wrinkling her nose. "I had to shower for fifteen minutes to get it off."

"Is he doing your portrait?"

"No, I think it just inspires him to see me standing there wearing nothing but chocolate syrup."

Roderick comments that he, too, would likely find that inspiring.

After dinner, Molly and Roderick work on Logic and Rhetoric together. Roderick makes a quick call home. Mrs. Smith answers; he asks her to give Laddie and Knuckles a hug.

Then it's off to bed for the two of them.

Snuggling together with Molly, Roderick wonders aloud: "I wonder what Mr. Smiley is up to?"

Prurient Designs

Pamela Primrose plays partitas prettily; preludes and passacaglias, too. With panache, she plays J.S. Bach: English Suites and French Suites, Partitas and Toccatas, Preludes and Fugues from The Well-Tempered Clavier (Books One and Two), and the greatest work of all, the Goldberg Variations.

But the composer closest to her heart is Domenico Scarlatti, who wrote five hundred fifty five sonati for the fortepiano. Pamela aspires to perform all of them.

Pamela is a third-year student at Old Ivy; an experienced fugalist, she tutors Molly and Anna on the esoteric art of Counterpoint. Today, she demonstrates the Cantus Firmus, according to the rules:

1. The cantus firmus is traditionally written in alto clef, a member of the movable clef family known as "C" clefs. C clefs include the alto clef, the tenor clef (both still in use today), and the soprano clef. In all C clefs, middle C is located where the arms of the clef meet

2. The cantus firmus begins and ends on the tonic of the key or the final of the mode. The penultimate note should be the note a step above the tonic or final (the second tonal or modal degree).

3. All notes are of equal length; the whole note is the traditional value.

And so forth, through Rule 14:

14. There should be a good balance between ascending and descending motion; the cantus firmus should possess a pleasing shape and should change direction several times.

Pamela practices perfect penmanship: her whole notes are perfectly elliptical, centered precisely on the staves and equidistant from one another.

Pausing, she pouts. Today, Pamela has a problem.

Anna and Molly show concern. "What's wrong?" asks Molly.

Pamela puts her pen down precipitously and primps her pink pleated skirt. "My birthday is coming soon," she says, sadly.

Anna smiles. "That's wonderful! Happy Birthday! But why so sad?"

"I'm going to be twenty-one."

"Even better! Congratulations!"

Pamela bursts into tears. Anna, sitting next to her, pats her shoulder and hands her some Kleenex. Molly frowns, puzzled. "Tell us what's bothering you," she whispers. "Maybe we can help."

On hearing this, Pamela sobs even harder. "N-n-n-no, y-y-you c-c-c-can't." She buries her head in her hands.

There is a pregnant moment as Pamela despairs. Anna and Molly look on helplessly.

Pamela peers out from behind her hands, eyes red and rimmed with tears. She lowers her voice. "I-I-I-I'm a v-v-v-v-virgin," she says, trembling and looking around in shame.

"Oh!" says Anna, suddenly understanding. "The Rule."

"Yes," says Molly. "The Unwritten Rule."

Pamela nods.

Molly leans forward. "How much time do we have?"

"Two weeks."

"I think we can help."

"Really?"

"There's someone we'd like you to meet."

"Someone who can help me with my problem?"

"Someone with the same problem only, you know, different."

"Does he like Domenico Scarlatti? I would never let a man fuck me unless he likes Scarlatti."

Molly ponders that one, partly because she's a little surprised to hear Pamela say the word 'fuck', and also because she never expected to hear the words 'fuck' and 'Scarlatti' juxtaposed in the same sentence.

"Yes, I believe he does."

Pamela is pleased to hear that one who is passionate for Scarlatti might have prurient designs on her purity.

Completely Chaste

Sunday morning. Roderick disentangles himself from the pile of limbs that is his bed and, virtue intact, steps over to the dresser and withdraws one of the dozen neatly folded identical white Oxford button-down shirts Mrs. Smith buys from Wickett's Bazaar Online. He places the folded shirt on top of the dresser and grabs one of six identical pairs of khaki-colored pleated pants -- also from Wickett's Bazaar -- and pulls them on over a fresh pair of underwear.

As he unfolds the shirt, the pile of flesh on the bed stirs, moans, and Emily extricates herself. Roderick threads his arms into his shirt. Emily, nude, pads over to him and helps him button the front buttons.

Wow, she thinks. He sings, he knows Logic, and he dresses well.

For today's service, the Bach Chorale plans to do the Bach cantata BWV 109 Ich glaube, lieber Herr, hilf meinem Unglauben!. Roderick and Emily need to get over to the St. Cecilia Chapel; Emily dresses quickly and they depart, leaving Megan sprawled naked in a snoring heap, holstered Glock resting on the table beside the bed.

"Good morning, Anna," says Roderick. They meet Anna on the path behind the church. Ever the lady, she wears a pretty floral dress and looks gorgeous as always.

"Good morning!". Anna waves to Roderick and Emily. Strange, she thinks. She feels curiously attracted to Roderick. Must be that innate biological attraction of women to men who sing.

The service goes well. Zack stands behind Emily and, while Mrs. Dowager sings the Alto solo Der Heiland kennet ja die Seinen, inserts his hand beneath her skirt and explores. He is pleased to discover that she wears nothing underneath; Emily is not displeased.

Returning to the Quad, Roderick bumps into Molly, who is on her way to the Arts building. It seems that she has a private session with Mr. Splatter, modern artist in residence, who wants her to smear chocolate sauce and raspberry jam on her nude body before he does her portrait.

It occurs to Roderick that Molly is the only person he knows who can indulge the most perverse fantasies and still remain completely chaste.

Chicks With Glocks

Saturday morning; Molly snuggles up against Roderick. "I don't want to get up yet", she moans. "But I have to go and practice."

Roderick snuggles back.

"I feel like I should spend more time with you, now that we are officially a couple," Molly murmurs. "But I'm so busy with practicing, posing, counterpoint studies, and you're so busy with everything, it's hard to find a moment."

"Don't worry," whispers Roderick. "When you're busy I can spend time with my other girlfriends."

Molly hugs him. "You know that rule we heard about the other day? The one that says we have to do it before we're twenty-one?"

"Hmm, yes," says Roderick. "The unwritten rule."

"Well, I'm thinking that we should do it before the first of July in 2015."

Roderick helpfully observes that the rule says one must have sex before the age of twenty-one, but it's not necessary to wait that long.

Molly kisses him. "I'm glad we agree on this." She exits the bed and departs.

At breakfast, Roderick sits by himself and indulges in a plate of scrapple and applesauce. Megan joins him looking very fetching with her long wavy red hair, substantial decolletage, revealing plaid miniskirt and Glock automatic holstered on her hip.

"Nice weapon," quips Roderick. He's used to it, of course. Megan is well beyond "concealed carry" and prefers "open carry", under the premise that an armed society is a society where prospective rapists think twice before targeting chicks with Glocks.

"Are you coming to the Anti-Rape Fair today?" asks Megan.

No, Roderick isn't planning to attend the Anti-Rape Fair today, but he wishes Megan good luck, and tries to imagine how she would look wearing nothing but the holstered Glock.

"We tell the women to forget self-defense and stuff, just blow their heads off."

Roderick comments that he thinks that blowing the heads off off prospective rapists is a very effective, if somewhat messy way to deal with them.

"Can I come over tonight? I need some help with Logic."

Roderick consents to a nocturnal visit from Megan, knowing full well that help with Logic is not what she seeks.

On his way to the St. Cecilia Chapel, Roderick passes through the Anti-Rape Fair, and notices the large crowd around the "Chicks With Glocks" booth, where Megan holds forth.

In the evening, there is a knock on Roderick's door. He opens, expecting Megan. It's Emily, who pushes her way in.

"Can I stay over tonight?" she coos. "I'm lonely."

Before Roderick can answer, there is another knock. This time, it's Megan, who still looks fetching with her long wavy red hair, substantial decolletage, revealing plaid miniskirt and Glock automatic holstered on her hip.

"Megan, this is Emily. Emily, Megan."

"Oh I know you!" exclaims Emily. "You were at the Fair. Can I see your weapon?"

"Well you know," says Megan, unstrapping her holster. "The first thing we learn in gun training is you should never draw your weapon unless you plan to use it."

Emily and Megan animatedly discuss guns and ammunition. Roderick returns to his desk and works on syllogisms.

Around ten o'clock, Roderick yawns. The women are still talking about guns. He interrupts. "I'm thinking about turning in. Are you ladies sleeping over, or do you want me to walk you home?"

The ladies are sleeping over. Roderick slips under the covers; Megan joins him on one side and Emily on the other.

It's very quiet in the room, and the light of the half-moon dimly illuminates the room. Roderick thinks that the present arrangement is very pleasant, but it may be necessary to get a larger bed if they make a regular thing of it.

The Bard of Old Ivy

On Friday, Megan goes to visit with Mr. Nigel Hawthorne, Distinguished Lecturer in English Literature. At Old Ivy, they call Mr. Hawthorne "The Bard" for his thoughtful essays on college life; elsewhere, he is best known for his series of "Captain Rakewell" novels for young adults. Captain Rakewell is best described as a fusion of Horatio Hornblower and the Marquis de Sade; the books are written in a style reminiscent of the Hardy Boys, if you overlook the BDSM.

Prospective writers among the Old Ivy student body flock to Mr, Hawthorne's seminars, and seek his counsel, even though his advice is at best elliptical. Students revere his literary voice, his elevated prose, his mastery of the English language; and above all, they admire his ability to earn massive royalties by pandering to the tastes of adolescents, and desire to do the same.

Brushing back her red hair and checking to make sure her decolletage is sufficiently exposed, Megan knocks on Mr. Hawthorne's office door.

"Enter!" comes the booming, resonant, Shakespearean voice.

Megan obeys. Mr. Hawthorne, with scruffly grey beard and a longish curly mane, reclines in an executive style office chair, sandalled feet on desk. He wears something that looks like a cross between a daishiki and an aloha shirt, which is just long enough to make it unclear whether or not he wears anything else.

The room smells of cigar smoke, body odor and something else that smells familiar but Megan can't quite place. She wrinkles her nose and sniffs. Got it. Spermicide.

Mr. Hawthorne has the string to a yellow yo-yo in his right hand, and seems to be concentrating on his yo-ing. "Speak!" he commands.

Megan does so. "I want to be a writer, and my friends say I should come to you for advice."

Mr. Hawthorne performs a perfect "around the world" trick with the yo-yo. "You have smart friends. What is your question?"

"Is it better to publish something every day, or is it better to publish only good quality work?"

Mr. Hawthorne catches the yo-yo, then relaxes back into the chair, staring at a spot in the ceiling with intense eyes for a pregnant minute.

"Both," he says.

Megan thanks Mr. Hawthorne and departs.

Fortuna's Temple

They say you can get anything you like in Fun City. If you savor braised medallions of monkey thigh served on a bed of sea prawns by a nude Korean masseuse who gently caresses you with hot stones while you dine, you can do so in Fun City. There are brothels catering to every fetish and perversion you've ever heard of, and likely some you haven't. And of course there are six ways from Sunday for you to demonstrate your belief in the Gambler's Fallacy by staking your hard-earned income on the proposition that the Law of Large Numbers is wrong, or that it doesn't apply to you.

You can get anything you like in Fun City, but you can't get scrapple.

Mr. Smith exits the elevator from his hotel room into Camelot's vast cavernous medieval-themed labyrinth of a casino. He is immediately assaulted by the thick smell of cigarette smoke partially masked by perfumed air freshener and the cacophony of thousands of guests demonstrating their belief in Fortuna, the Roman goddess of luck, by staking their hard-earned income on the proposition that the Law of Large Numbers is wrong, or does not apply to them, or is at least temporarily suspended.

Mr. Smith thinks it's touching that so many people believe in something.

One obese matron sits at a Black Gold 50 Grand slot machine, her buttocks spilling over the sides of the seat, pressing the "play" button so fast and hard that Mr. Smith expects repetitive stress syndrome will ensue. He wonders if she will then apply for Social Security Disability Income. Likely Obama voter, he thinks.

Making his way through the casino floor, as one must do to go anywhere, Mr. Smith passes an overpriced Medieval-themed restaurant and an overpriced "Celebrity" restaurant to get to the overpriced "Casual" restaurant. He takes a seat and peruses the menu.

"Hi, I'm Gloria, and I'll be serving you this morning." Gloria personifies Middle American womanhood, with the possible exception of the dragon tattoos decorating her arms from wrist to shoulder, and the purple hair. Gloria is dressed in what would be an authentic Medieval costume if Medieval women exposed all but the pink parts of their boobs and wore kilts that, on bending over, expose lacy underwear embroidered with the words "Precious Cargo."

"Can I get some scrapple?" It's not on the menu, but Mr. Smith is hoping that he can, in fact, get whatever he wants in Fun City.

"What's that?" Wherever Gloria comes from, it seems that scrapple is not part of the local cuisine.

Mr. Smith warms to his favorite subject. "Scrapple is a mush of pork scraps and trimmings combined with cornmeal and buckwheat flour, and spices. The mush is formed into a semi-solid congealed loaf, and slices of the scrapple are then panfried before serving. It is best known as a rural American food of the Mid-Atlantic region, and commonly considered an ethnic food of the Pennsylvania Dutch, including the Mennonites and Amish."

Gloria squints. "I'll ask." She departs, stooping for a moment to scoop up a scrap of paper from the carpet and exposing precious cargo.

Mr. Smith scans the room and notes that most of the other diners, all of whom seem to be taking a break from placing bets against the Law of Large Numbers, also seem to be placing bets against the science of nutrition, at least so far as it concerns weight management.

Gloria returns. "We don't have that." Mr. Smith orders a cheese omelet instead.

The omelet, when it arrives, is enormous. This seems to be a pattern in Fun City. Overfeeding lulls the frontal cortex into a state of oblivion; the rubes stagger out of the dining rooms and, in a state of moral euphoria, continue to spend the milk money on bets against the Law of Large Numbers.

The check, when it arrives, is equally enormous.

Later that day, Mr. Smith addresses the conference. The text of his speech:

Thank you ladies and gentlemen. The key to successful investment management is this: invest prudently, diversify broadly, avoid undue risk, and respect the Law of Large Numbers. Thank you.

There is a thunderous wave of applause. Mr. Smith smiles, waves and departs Fun City.