Here’s the poison, old man,” said Beeson, bringing Matlock his drink. “Do you workthrough an agent, Jim? Not that I’m nosy. I’m years from writing anything.”
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Ginny pouted vocally.
“Yes, I do. Irving Block in Boston. If you’re working on something, perhaps I could show it to him.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t … that’d be awfully presumptuous of me.…” Beeson retreated with feigned humility to the couch with his drink. He sat next to his wife and they involuntarily, thought Matlock exchanged satisfied looks.
“Come on, Archie. You’re a bright fellow. A real comer on this campus. Why do you think I asked you about the seminar?
You
could be doing
me
the favor. I might be bringing Block a winner. That rubs off, you know.”
Beeson’s expression had the honesty of gratitude. It embarrassed Matlock to return the instructor’s gaze until he saw something else in Beeson’s eyes. He couldn’t define it, but it was there. A slight wildness, a trace of panic.
The look of a man whose mind and body knew drugs.
“That’s
damned
good-oh of you, Jim. I’m touched,
really
.”
The cheese, drinks, and dinner somehow passed. There were moments when Matlock had the feeling he was outside himself, watching three characters in a scene from some old movie. Perhaps on board ship or in a sloppily elegant New York apartment with the three of them wearing tightly fitted formal clothes. He wondered why he visualized the scene in such fashion—and then he knew. The Beesons had a thirtiesquality about them. The thirties that he had observed on the late night television films. They were somehow an anachronism, of this time but not of the time. It was either more than camp or less than puton; he couldn’t be sure. They were not artificial in themselves, but there was a falseness in their emphatic small talk, their dated expressions. Yet the truth was that they were the
now
of the present generation.
Lysergic acid and methedrine.
Acid heads. Pill poppers.
The Beesons were somehow forcing themselves to show themselves as part of a past and carefree era. Perhaps to deny the times and conditions in which they found themselves.
Archie Beeson and his wife were frightening.
By eleven, after considerable wine with the “interesting-little-veal-dish-from-a-recipe-in-an-old-Italian cookbook,” the three of them sat down in the living room. The last of the proposed seminar problems was ironed out. Matlock knew it was time to begin; the awful, awkward moment He wasn’t sure how; the best he could do was to trust his amateur instincts.
“Look, you two.… I hope to hell this won’t come as too great a shock, but I’ve been a long time without a stick.” He withdrew a thin cigarette case from his pocket and opened it. He felt foolish, uncomfortably clumsy. But he knew he could not show those feelings. “Before you make any judgments, I should tell you I don’t go along with the pot laws and I never have.”
Matlock selected a cigarette from the dozen in the case and left the case open on the table. Was that the proper thing to do? He wasn’t sure; he didn’t know. Archie and his wife looked at each other. Through the flame in front of his face, Matlock watched theirreaction. It was cautious yet positive. Perhaps it was the alcohol in Ginny, but she smiled hesitantly, as if she was relieved to find a friend. Her husband wasn’t quite so responsive.
“Go right ahead, old man,” said the young instructor with a trace of condescension. “We’re hardly on the attorney general’s payroll.”
“Hardly!” giggled the wife.
“The laws are archaic,” continued Matlock, inhaling deeply. “In all areas. Control and an abiding sense of discretion—self-discretion—are all that matter. To deny experience is the real crime. To prohibit any intelligent individual’s right to fulfillment is … goddamn it, it’s repressive.”
“Well, I think the key word
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Ginny pouted vocally.
“Yes, I do. Irving Block in Boston. If you’re working on something, perhaps I could show it to him.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t … that’d be awfully presumptuous of me.…” Beeson retreated with feigned humility to the couch with his drink. He sat next to his wife and they involuntarily, thought Matlock exchanged satisfied looks.
“Come on, Archie. You’re a bright fellow. A real comer on this campus. Why do you think I asked you about the seminar?
You
could be doing
me
the favor. I might be bringing Block a winner. That rubs off, you know.”
Beeson’s expression had the honesty of gratitude. It embarrassed Matlock to return the instructor’s gaze until he saw something else in Beeson’s eyes. He couldn’t define it, but it was there. A slight wildness, a trace of panic.
The look of a man whose mind and body knew drugs.
“That’s
damned
good-oh of you, Jim. I’m touched,
really
.”
The cheese, drinks, and dinner somehow passed. There were moments when Matlock had the feeling he was outside himself, watching three characters in a scene from some old movie. Perhaps on board ship or in a sloppily elegant New York apartment with the three of them wearing tightly fitted formal clothes. He wondered why he visualized the scene in such fashion—and then he knew. The Beesons had a thirtiesquality about them. The thirties that he had observed on the late night television films. They were somehow an anachronism, of this time but not of the time. It was either more than camp or less than puton; he couldn’t be sure. They were not artificial in themselves, but there was a falseness in their emphatic small talk, their dated expressions. Yet the truth was that they were the
now
of the present generation.
Lysergic acid and methedrine.
Acid heads. Pill poppers.
The Beesons were somehow forcing themselves to show themselves as part of a past and carefree era. Perhaps to deny the times and conditions in which they found themselves.
Archie Beeson and his wife were frightening.
By eleven, after considerable wine with the “interesting-little-veal-dish-from-a-recipe-in-an-old-Italian cookbook,” the three of them sat down in the living room. The last of the proposed seminar problems was ironed out. Matlock knew it was time to begin; the awful, awkward moment He wasn’t sure how; the best he could do was to trust his amateur instincts.
“Look, you two.… I hope to hell this won’t come as too great a shock, but I’ve been a long time without a stick.” He withdrew a thin cigarette case from his pocket and opened it. He felt foolish, uncomfortably clumsy. But he knew he could not show those feelings. “Before you make any judgments, I should tell you I don’t go along with the pot laws and I never have.”
Matlock selected a cigarette from the dozen in the case and left the case open on the table. Was that the proper thing to do? He wasn’t sure; he didn’t know. Archie and his wife looked at each other. Through the flame in front of his face, Matlock watched theirreaction. It was cautious yet positive. Perhaps it was the alcohol in Ginny, but she smiled hesitantly, as if she was relieved to find a friend. Her husband wasn’t quite so responsive.
“Go right ahead, old man,” said the young instructor with a trace of condescension. “We’re hardly on the attorney general’s payroll.”
“Hardly!” giggled the wife.
“The laws are archaic,” continued Matlock, inhaling deeply. “In all areas. Control and an abiding sense of discretion—self-discretion—are all that matter. To deny experience is the real crime. To prohibit any intelligent individual’s right to fulfillment is … goddamn it, it’s repressive.”
“Well, I think the key word
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