expected you the middle of the week.”
“Yeah, well, something came up at the office. They wouldn’t let me go till yesterday at noon.” And then because he knew he’d sounded rude, “I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”
“No, not at all.” Smiling again, Parsons pointed toward one of the well-stuffed leather chairs before the desk. “Have a seat. Can I get you something?”
“Coffee would be nice.”
Parsons pressed a button on the intercom and looked at him.
“Cream and sugar. Lots of it,” Dunlap said.
And Parsons put the order through. Then still smiling, Parsons sat back, his hands upon his lap, and waited. He was maybe fifty-five, husky, almost fat, but not exactly. Mostly he was just big-boned: massive chest and shoulders, hands as big as a heavyweight boxer’s. His head seemed extra large as well. Even with his bulging stomach, he seemed very much in shape, though, his skin as fresh and smooth as athletes in their twenties. When he’d come around to shake hands with Dunlap, he had moved as if he were a dancer or a man of half his size and weight. Dunlap was impressed. This man had a presence. More than that, he knew what he was doing. He had never once appeared to notice Dunlap’s wrinkled coat and ravaged face and eyes. Clearly, though, he’d been aware of them from the start. He was not a man who did things without thinking. The way he’d fixed this office so it stood out from the others. The way he sat, his expensive suit conspicuous in a town where everyone wore cowboy clothes, his blue shirt crisp and clean, his striped tie meticulously knotted, his hands upon his lap, leaning back and smiling, as if he were at his leisure (but he wasn’t). Dunlap knew he’d have to watch him.
“Yes, well, tell me,” Parsons said, still leaning back and smiling. “I know you told me on the phone. But just to help me understand, why not tell me once again?”
Dunlap lit a cigarette. “Well, we’re doing retrospectives.”
Parsons leaned ahead abruptly, pointing. “No, not here.”
Dunlap wondered what he meant. He looked around. He saw that there were no ashtrays and understood, standing up to crush the cigarette against the inside of a refuse can. “Sorry.”
“Quite all right. You couldn’t know.”
“Sure.” And now you’re up on me, you bastard, Dunlap thought, sitting back and going on. “Like I said, we’re doing retrospectives-“
“Newsworld
magazine?”
‘That’s right.”
And Parsons nodded. “Quite a thing. A man from Newsworld magazine to come here.”
‘Yes, well-“
“Must be quite a story.”
Then the door opened, and the woman came in with the coffee.
‘Thank you.”
“Certainly.” And she was gone.
Dunlap tried to continue his explanation. “We’ve been-“
“How’s the coffee?” ‘Just the way I like it.” “Fine.”
And Dunlap had lost count of how much Parsons was ahead of him. “The commune,” he was saying.
Parsons looked at him. He evidently hadn’t figured they would get so quickly to the point. His eyes narrowed. “That’s right. I remember now. You’re checking on the commune.” “The commune twenty years after it was founded.” “Twenty-three.” “How’s that?”
“Twenty-three
years since it was founded.” ‘Yeah, we figured that might make a point.” Parsons shook his head and frowned. “I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, the difference between then and now. Nineteen seventy. Dope and acid. Vietnam. Young people either going into politics or dropping out of society.” “But what about the commune?” “Well, we figured we would check on how it went.” “I still don’t understand.”
“It’s a way to measure how the country changed. All those fine young good intentions.”
Parsons made a face. “The new republic. That’s the thing they called it. Free love, free food, and free spirit.” Parsons made another face.
“Yes, but never mind the ‘free love’ business. That’s the part that
“Yeah, well, something came up at the office. They wouldn’t let me go till yesterday at noon.” And then because he knew he’d sounded rude, “I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”
“No, not at all.” Smiling again, Parsons pointed toward one of the well-stuffed leather chairs before the desk. “Have a seat. Can I get you something?”
“Coffee would be nice.”
Parsons pressed a button on the intercom and looked at him.
“Cream and sugar. Lots of it,” Dunlap said.
And Parsons put the order through. Then still smiling, Parsons sat back, his hands upon his lap, and waited. He was maybe fifty-five, husky, almost fat, but not exactly. Mostly he was just big-boned: massive chest and shoulders, hands as big as a heavyweight boxer’s. His head seemed extra large as well. Even with his bulging stomach, he seemed very much in shape, though, his skin as fresh and smooth as athletes in their twenties. When he’d come around to shake hands with Dunlap, he had moved as if he were a dancer or a man of half his size and weight. Dunlap was impressed. This man had a presence. More than that, he knew what he was doing. He had never once appeared to notice Dunlap’s wrinkled coat and ravaged face and eyes. Clearly, though, he’d been aware of them from the start. He was not a man who did things without thinking. The way he’d fixed this office so it stood out from the others. The way he sat, his expensive suit conspicuous in a town where everyone wore cowboy clothes, his blue shirt crisp and clean, his striped tie meticulously knotted, his hands upon his lap, leaning back and smiling, as if he were at his leisure (but he wasn’t). Dunlap knew he’d have to watch him.
“Yes, well, tell me,” Parsons said, still leaning back and smiling. “I know you told me on the phone. But just to help me understand, why not tell me once again?”
Dunlap lit a cigarette. “Well, we’re doing retrospectives.”
Parsons leaned ahead abruptly, pointing. “No, not here.”
Dunlap wondered what he meant. He looked around. He saw that there were no ashtrays and understood, standing up to crush the cigarette against the inside of a refuse can. “Sorry.”
“Quite all right. You couldn’t know.”
“Sure.” And now you’re up on me, you bastard, Dunlap thought, sitting back and going on. “Like I said, we’re doing retrospectives-“
“Newsworld
magazine?”
‘That’s right.”
And Parsons nodded. “Quite a thing. A man from Newsworld magazine to come here.”
‘Yes, well-“
“Must be quite a story.”
Then the door opened, and the woman came in with the coffee.
‘Thank you.”
“Certainly.” And she was gone.
Dunlap tried to continue his explanation. “We’ve been-“
“How’s the coffee?” ‘Just the way I like it.” “Fine.”
And Dunlap had lost count of how much Parsons was ahead of him. “The commune,” he was saying.
Parsons looked at him. He evidently hadn’t figured they would get so quickly to the point. His eyes narrowed. “That’s right. I remember now. You’re checking on the commune.” “The commune twenty years after it was founded.” “Twenty-three.” “How’s that?”
“Twenty-three
years since it was founded.” ‘Yeah, we figured that might make a point.” Parsons shook his head and frowned. “I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, the difference between then and now. Nineteen seventy. Dope and acid. Vietnam. Young people either going into politics or dropping out of society.” “But what about the commune?” “Well, we figured we would check on how it went.” “I still don’t understand.”
“It’s a way to measure how the country changed. All those fine young good intentions.”
Parsons made a face. “The new republic. That’s the thing they called it. Free love, free food, and free spirit.” Parsons made another face.
“Yes, but never mind the ‘free love’ business. That’s the part that
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