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  • Acquiring the Taste Ch. 02

Acquiring the Taste Ch. 02

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Chapter the Second, in which Steve and Miriam go on their first date, and a very special item is added to Veronica's wardrobe.

*

The letter was handwritten on stationery, the heading of which read, "From the desk of Carlton Gardiner, Jr." It was framed, and it hung on the wall at the end of the hallway, underneath a picture of the man himself. It was the first thing Steve saw every morning as he came out of his bedroom, and the last thing he saw before retiring in the evening. Seven years had passed since he first read it. He could have recited it from memory now.

April 3, 1992

Dear Son,

I'm writing this letter eight days after the death of your mother. If you're reading this, I've joined her.

Your mother used to talk a lot about how quiet the house was after you went away to college. I noticed the difference too, and now that she has gone, I notice it all the more. I laugh now to think of all the times she told me that working so hard was going to put me in an early grave. I was going to retire early. Not early enough, it turns out, but no man expects his wife to die so young. There was always one more thing to do, one more goal to achieve, and then we could spend our twilight years enjoying one another's company. These past few days, I've found myself feeling like God has cheated me out of my life. You being the unrepentant heathen would undoubtedly have the good sense to place the blame where it really belongs.

I'm still holding out hope that you'll come back to church. You have an open invitation from me. I'll welcome the prodigal son, whatever the rest of the congregation might have to say. As for me, I apologize for calling your gay friend an abomination, but of course you realize that my apology doesn't change the way I feel. Your mother and I were distraught when you abandoned God and stuck up for your debauched friend, but I suppose there's something to be said for your loyalty.

I've tried to make up for not having your company by acquainting myself with all the books you left behind. I never understood why a man would need any books other than the Bible, but on closer inspection, I was surprised to find that you have six of them, which is five more than I have. I'm glad you found room in your collection for six versions of God's word, and I've tried to meet you halfway, as it were, by reading stuff that, just a few months ago, I would have considered an impious waste of my time. (I can hear your mother's voice now, saying, "Carlton, you're a fine one to be talking about wasting time.") Yesterday, at random, I pulled down that little volume of Dylan Thomas. As you might well imagine, I was drawn to that poem about not going gentle into that good night. With all due respect to an otherwise fine poet, if there's anything I've learned these past few days, it's that the right time to rage against the dying of the light is when it burns most brightly.

Workaholic that I've been, I never was able to understand how you could approach life as if nothing at all was worth doing, and yet remain such an optimist. Maybe you were on to something after all. Certainly you're better equipped to learn from Dylan Thomas.

I know – have known for years, really – that you have no interest in running the family business. I accept that. I think you'll make a fine attorney. But if you insist on helping the downtrodden, rooting for the underdog, and fighting losing battles on behalf of lost causes, you're going to need a safety cushion. So I'm selling the business. I'm drafting a new will. Whatever is left over after I'm gone is yours.

But there's a part of me that wants to tell you not to make the same mistakes I made. I waited for the day when I would be able to sit back and enjoy my life, and never was wise enough to perceive that the time to enjoy life is when you're living it. I lived in order to work, when I should have worked in order to live. The value of my estate will most likely spare you from having to make that kind of choice, and allow you simply to live.

Do your mother and me a favor. Enjoy my retirement. Rage against the dying of the light.

Whatever you do, and whatever you believe, I am proud of you, and I love you.

--Dad

Steve's mother had just celebrated her fiftieth birthday that winter, and her sudden and untimely death was a serious blow that almost kept him from graduating on time. At the end of summer, he went on to law school. In October, on receiving the news of his father's disappearance, he took a hiatus and returned home. In the middle of that month, Carlton Gardiner's body was found, washed up on the banks of Lethe Creek a few hundred yards downstream from where he had left his fishing gear. Steve's hiatus from law school became permanent when he read the letter.

He still resided in the apartment that he had moved into while he was grieving seven years ago. Miriam had assumed that the apartment near the University campus was just a temporary residence while he looked for something more appropriate to his wealth, perhaps one of the condominiums on the riverfront, or a house in the expensive west suburbs, but Steve had stayed here, occupying the three-bedroom apartment alone – one bedroom for him, one for his books, and one for his music collection – and seeing no need to move.

He sat at the dining room table reading the paper that Miriam had given him last night, occasionally glancing up and looking through the window at the gray skies, watching the wind whip the oak tree just outside. The tree had still been green and lively just a few weeks ago, and now a few brown leaves were left clinging to the branches. He used to like watching the seasons change, observing how summer's last gasps tried to disperse the encroaching chill and darkness. After his father died, October became death writ large, and whatever the weather brought, he was always glad to turn the page of the calendar on the morning after the thirty-first.

A CD spun in his stereo. A song from his college days – "Getting Away with It," by Electronic. He had discovered during his high school days the therapeutic value of listening to depressing music, cleansing oneself of negative emotions by hearing someone else express them, but during this month it didn't seem to help anymore. This song in particular now seemed less meaningful than it ever had before. He had listened to it several times to help him come to grips with the idea that he and Miriam would never connect romantically, but last night's conversation with Miriam had undone the song's significance for him.

He still had trouble believing what he had heard last night. Somehow, during all the time they had spent together in college, he had managed to fail to see that she had wanted the same thing he had wanted. He thought he had understood her fairly well, but it seemed he hadn't after all. A consequence of being introverted was that he had never put much energy in getting to know and understand people generally, but he had always thought that he knew and understood his friends well. Miriam's revelation last night made that a lie.

He had always reserved the energy required to understand things for whatever captured his interest at the moment. He had been interested in music from an early age, buying vinyl records long before his tenth birthday, and over the years he had broadened his interests. As a child, he had received as a Christmas gift a portable radio, and he had educated himself about music by starting at the left end of the dial, tuning in the first station he could find, listening to it for a week or so, and moving on to the next station, learning music genre by genre. His interest in books had taken a similarly meandering course, starting out with general fiction, then reading non-fiction books, acquiring a stack of books on whatever subject he found fascinating, reading them, and moving on to a stack on a different subject. After last night, he couldn't help wondering how much different his life would be if he had taken as great an interest in people as he had in music and books, and he resolved to channel that energy in a new direction.

Getting to know his best friend better seemed an appropriate place to start, and now he looked forward to breaking the morose monotony of the autumn days by visiting the cinema with Miriam. Three Kings sounded good, at least as far as the plot was concerned, and a politically relevant film would probably score bonus points with Miriam. Mumford sounded offbeat and quirky, and was a tempting choice. But he had seen the trailer for American Beauty, and had made up his mind beforehand that that would be the film he took Miriam to see tonight, unless something more interesting caught his attention, and nothing did.

The choice of the movie was settled, but there was still the matter of the haircut. He called the salon. He usually made his appointments with Veronica, but doubted he could see her on such short notice. It turned out, however, that her one o'clock appointment had cancelled. So, late in the morning, he went out for an early lunch, planning to pick up advance movie tickets and stop at the salon afterwards.

Over the course of the day, Veronica had discovered that there was an advantage to the prospect of her Mistress putting her in a chastity belt. She had just returned from lunch, and usually by this time every day, her surgically-repaired ankle was very tender. Preoccupied with the threat that hung over her head, she hadn't paid much attention to the pain – nor, in fact, to much else. She had worked through her morning appointments in a mental fugue, and her more talkative and vivacious clients had noticed the difference. More than once, a client had paused expectantly as if waiting for a response, and she had had to fake interest with a nod, or a falsely knowing "Mm-hmm," and she knew when her response was inappropriate, seeing the confused and vaguely offended expressions on their faces.

She stopped at the front counter to read the name in the appointment book that had been penciled in after her cancellation. Steve Gardiner. Short top and sides, no sideburns, she recalled. Leave the back long, but trim the ends. Doesn't talk much, but has a nice voice when he bothers to use it. Apparently has a lot of money, but dresses like his wardrobe was purchased at K-Mart. Tips extremely well.

No sooner did she see the name than the man himself, dressed in his typical polo shirt and blue jeans, walked in the front door with all the punctuality of a man with absolutely nothing else to do. She put on the friendliest face she could and greeted him. "Hello Mr. Gardiner. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks." A blatant lie, but she wasn't about to tell him how she really felt, and certainly not why. "Please have a seat." This was about all the conversation she could normally expect from him. Often, on previous appointments, she had been able to coax him into a little bit of conversation and managed to learn a few things about him – his interests in books, music and film, and his being wealthy enough not to have to work for a living. He had never asked any questions about her – not that he was impolite; he simply didn't give any indication that he was curious about her.

She wouldn't be prodding him for information today. She just wanted to get through the rest of her appointments and prepare to face Miriam. She took his glasses and sat them on the counter at her workstation, then took a comb and shears and prepared for his usual trim, and then he spoke.

"Take it all off."

No, she couldn't have heard that right. Or else it was a joke. That's it, he's joking with me, she thought and laughed. "What, bad hair day?"

"I'm serious. I want my head shaved."

She smiled cautiously. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

He smiled back. "Are you afraid of making a mistake?"

Apparently he wasn't joking. He really did want this. "All right then." She stepped behind him with the shears and gathered his mullet into a tail, combing through it several times, then brought the shears into place.

"Last chance to change your mind," she warned.

"Do it," he said with a smile.

She cut through it, and held the clump in her hand. "Um – did you want to save this?"

He didn't even turn to look. "If I ever want to see it again, I'll grow it back."

She let it fall to the floor.

She worked carefully, shortening his hair in stages as if to give him the chance to decide against such a drastic change – maybe off the collar would be good enough? Off the ear? But he didn't stop her.

"What brought this on?" she asked with genuine curiosity.

"A friend has brought it to my attention that I'm going bald, and that I'm in denial about it."

That doesn't sound like much of a friend, she thought, but she was too tactful to say it out loud.

As she worked, he thought ahead to the date – and back to his decision that morning to take a greater interest in people. He had been seeing Veronica at the salon for a few years now, and didn't really know much about her. He knew that was his own fault. It wasn't for lack of interest, but for lack of a talent for small talk. He was going to have to develop that talent now. Why not start with Veronica? If nothing else, it might be a good dress rehearsal for the date tonight.

But where to start? He had already asked her how she was – a question that people seem to ask more out of politeness than genuine interest. Perhaps he could rephrase it, make it open-ended.

"So, how's life treating you?"

Veronica almost dropped the shears mid-snip. Five years she had been cutting the man's hair and initiating all of the conversation, such as it was – and now this? He really seemed to want to know. But there was simply no way she could discuss this under the present circumstances. Well, my new Mistress wants to slap a chastity belt on me because I haven't kept my journal up to date and because I've been playing with myself without her permission, but other than that, I really can't complain, she imagined herself saying. But as interesting as the reaction might be, she just couldn't say that.

She paused and sighed, "I think the less said about that, the better."

Well, that went over like a lead balloon, he thought, and fell silent again, as she brought the clippers to his scalp and trimmed what was left down to stubble.

She felt bad about not wanting to answer his question, and wondered if he'd ever venture to ask her again in the future, or start any conversation at all. She liked the sound of his baritone voice, and wondered if he sang. She remembered once bringing up the subject of music with him, to her surprise and amusement starting him on a monologue about his record collection, and how he had worked for the campus radio station when he was a student at State U. She remembered how she and the women at the adjacent workstations had exchanged glances and smiles – and later, gossip. Veronica said she wished he still worked for the radio station, just so she could hear that voice more often. Mandy went even further than that, suggesting that she was going to play back that voice in her head that night when she made love with her husband.

As she started to lather up his scalp, preparing to scrape away the stubble, she turned toward the washbasin and stumbled. He had seen her limp before. Some days were worse than others. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks, it's all right."

"What happened to your ankle?"

She cleared her throat. This was another subject she didn't like to discuss. "An accident. A long time ago."

She didn't seem to want to talk about this, and he decided not to press the issue. He didn't think it wise to antagonize or distract someone who was holding a razor blade up to his head.

She worked quickly and expertly once he fell silent again, and she wiped his scalp clean and returned his glasses so that he could judge her work. From the adjacent work stations, Mandy and Bridgette had sneaked glances as she worked, at first stunned at his request, but now stunned at the results. He didn't speak for a few seconds – add sideburns and a fringe of hair, and the man staring back at him from the mirror would have born a surprising resemblance to his father. But as he reached up to feel his smooth scalp with his hand – a new experience for him – he nodded and slowly smiled. Veronica didn't let out her sigh of relief until she saw that smile.

Afterwards, at the register, something else caught his eye. Her necklace. And the pendant that hung from it – that black and blue bull's-eye pattern looked oddly familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

He decided to make one last attempt at conversation. "That's a nice necklace."

Her response baffled him. Her eyes went wide and her hand went to her throat. The token of Miriam's ownership was going to become permanent tonight, with the addition of the padlock, and she started to panic at the thought. "Thank you, have a nice day," she breathed out as she hastily retreated to the safety of the ladies' room.

He shook his head as he left. Trying to understand Veronica had taken a lot of energy, and he hoped he had enough time to recharge before the date.

Veronica worked through the last of her appointments distractedly, and stopped at her apartment on the way to Miriam's house in order to take the Ace bandage off her ankle and to pick up the supplies she needed – then remembered at the last minute to grab her vibrator and her journal, gathering everything into a canvas grocery bag. It no longer bothered her that the journal was blank. She didn't imagine that her situation could get any worse.

The jittery, nervous anticipation she had felt all day finally subsided when she knocked on Miriam's front door. Like a doctor's appointment, she mused. The waiting is the hardest part. Miriam answered the door wearing a blue terrycloth bathrobe, having shed her work clothes as soon as she got home. She smiled to see Veronica blush and drop her gaze, and she stepped aside to let her in.

Veronica knew what to do, having already refreshed her memory from Miriam's list of rules. Miriam closed and locked the front door as Veronica went to the kitchen to set her grocery bag on the counter, taking out her vibrator and journal. She returned to the living room where Miriam waited patiently, and she sat the journal and vibrator at her feet, not making any eye contact, and she began to disrobe – first stepping out of her high-top walking shoes, then taking off her slacks, blouse, bra, panties and socks, putting her socks over her shoes and folding the other items carefully, laying it all at Miriam's feet next to the journal and vibrator. Finally, she presented herself naked before her Mistress, easing herself to her knees with her thighs spread wide, lacing her fingers behind her head, thrusting her heavy breasts forward, and dropping her gaze to Miriam's feet.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and said, "veronica greets You, Madame Mim."

Miriam didn't reply. She bent forward and picked up the journal. She chuckled when she opened it and found it blank, confirming her suspicions. She took the vibrator and gathered up her clothes and shoes, and without a word she carried them to her bedroom.

Veronica almost stood up and followed, but made herself stay put, realizing that she hadn't been permitted or commanded to follow. She stayed still, not turning to look when she heard Miriam's footsteps returning.

Miriam stood in front of her, and she bit her lip and took a deep breath when she saw what Miriam was holding.

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  • Acquiring the Taste Ch. 02

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