“I don’t want drugs in my house,” I said.
“No one can see in.”
“I’m being set up,” I said.
“Everyone thinks they’re being set up. I’ve been turning on for two years and I’ve never been busted.”
“Yes, but you’re a FAPer.”
“That makes it more dangerous for me,” Vivian said. “Most FAPers are straight; it’s very risky to be with FAP and to turn on at the same time. I have to wait until I’m around people like you before I can do it. That’s one reason I was glad when they assigned me to cover you. That’s why I came over here tonight when you called, so we could turn on together.”
“I don’t turn on,” I said.
“Of course you do. Everyone knows you do. You’re one of the biggest dopers in America. It’s in your bio material published with your books—look what Harlan Ellison wrote in Dangerous Visions. We have that in triplicate. And all your friends say you turn on.”
“That was made up,” I said, “to sell books.”
“You turn on,” Vivian said. “Here, give me my hash pipe back. It’s my turn for a hit.”
I could scarcely flush her hash pipe down the toilet, so I returned it to her. Vivian inhaled deeply, her face flushed.
As she passed it back to me she said, coughing, “Hash makes me horny.”
“Oh,” I said, “Well.”
“Does it make you horny?” She took another hit from her pipe, her eyes beginning to glaze over now, becoming unfocused; her whole body seemed limp, and at grateful ease.
“Let’s go in the bedroom,” I said.
“In a minute. When we’re through with the hash.” She continued to smoke, ritualistically now, in a lazy, blithe way. Her cares, her agitation about my political report, my dumping the lid of grass, had vanished.
The time had now come to turn the tables on the tyranny oppressing me. Once I had made little Vivian Kaplan my mistress, I could stop worrying about my political report. Taking her by the hand, I set her hash pipe down and lifted her to her feet. “Are you on the pill?” I asked her as I guided her down the hall toward my bedroom. I had to hold on to her to keep her from weaving into the wall.
“Of course I am,” Vivian said. She was reflexively starting to unbutton her blouse as we approached the open bedroom door; humming and smiling from the hash, she entered the bedroom, and I kicked the door shut after us.
“Just a minute,” I said as she sat on the edge of the bed removing her skirt. “I’ll be right back.” I returned to the living room where she had left her hash pipe. Placing it carefully back in her purse I closed the purse around it, thinking, this way if they break in and find the dope it’ll obviously be hers. Despite her efforts, they won’t be able to pin it on me.
“Hurry up,” Vivian called from the bedroom. “I’m starting to crash.” I hurried back down the hall to the bedroom and found her lying nude on the bed, her clothes in a pile on my typing chair. “Hash makes me sleepy sometimes,” she said. “I have to get it on right away or I’m too out of it.”
We made love. Toward the end Vivian did fall into a deep, untroubled sleep. Well, I said to myself as I padded down the hall to the bathroom to take a shower, I am now master—rather than victim—of the situation. This girl is not going to spy on me any longer. I have turned an enemy into something even better than a friend: a co-conspirator in sexuality.
After I had taken my shower I reentered the bedroom to find her asleep with the top sheet pulled over her. “Vivian,” I said, touching her on the shoulder, “is there anything I can get you? Something to drink?”
“I’m hungry,” Vivian murmured sleepily. “After I make out I’m always terribly hungry. When I first was making out I used to eat up everything in the refrigerator afterward. Half a chicken, a pizza, two hamburgers, and a quart of milk . . . whatever I could find.”
“I can fix you a frozen beef pie,” I said.
“Got any soft drinks, like a Pepsi?”
I had a can of Coors beer, which I brought her. Vivian sat in her underwear on the bed, drinking the beer.
“What do you do,” I asked her, “when you’re not working for FAP? I mean, you can’t run errands for FAP all the time.”
“I go to school,” Vivian said.
“Where? Cal State Fullerton? Santa Ana College?”
“Valentia High,” Vivian said. “I’m a senior. I graduate this June.”
“High school!” I said, stricken. “Vivian—” I could hardly speak; I was shaking with fear. “How old are you, for chrissakes?”
“Seventeen,” Vivian said, sipping the beer. “I’ll be eighteen this September.”
Oh, my God, I realized. She’s underage. It’s statutory rape! A felony! As bad as the dope—in fact, worse. All she has to do is mention it to the police; arrest is automatic.
“Vivian,” I grated, “it’s illegal for you to go to bed with me. Don’t you know that?” I began getting her clothes together. “You have to get right out of here!”
“Nobody knows I’m here,” Vivian said calmly; she continued drinking the Coors beer. “Except Bill.”
“Who the hell is ‘Bill’?”
“The boy I was with earlier today, when we came as a team. I told him I’d call him when I got home, so he’d know I’m all right. We’re engaged.”
It was too much for me; I sank down on the chair facing her and just stared at her.
“He won’t mind,” Vivian said. “Just so long as you file your political response in time. That’s all he cares about, racking
