Muskrat Fun for Everyone

San Francisco was Freedom! Owen Willicks knew it in his blood as he stood in the damp night at the edge of Union Square and felt the life of the city vibrate around him. The cable cars rumbled up the impossible steepness of Powell Street. The people crowded past him--beautiful women in furs, bearded youths in ragged coats, impatient businessmen in sharp creased suits. They all radiated a vitality that filled the air and reflected from the wet pavement like the lights of the passing cars.

Owen had never dreamed of going to California. Then, two days before, a customer of Owen's firm, Databyte, had requested help with his computer. Owen had been selected as the most expendable programmer and shipped by air from Minnesota to the Bay City. It had taken him one day to straighten out the customer's problems, giving him one free evening before his return. He had eaten a delicious steak dinner served by a lovely topless waitress and then had roamed the streets, where posters and marquees announced spectacles of a most intimate nature.

So now (continued on page 236)Muskrat Fun(continued from page 149) he stood and exulted in the freedom around him and his success of the day, trying to package it all in his mind for retelling back in Winston Falls. There was such life about him, such tolerance for one's fellow man! The citizens of this cosmopolitan city allowed one another to pursue their own fancies and pleasures with a minimum of interference.

"Buy a Barb?" said a soft voice behind him.

Owen turned. The girl was thin. She wore an old Army field jacket and faded Levis. There was a depth of sadness in her eyes. Owen could not tell if it came from hunger or from some vast cognizance of the universe. She held a paper toward him. "Berkeley Barb?" she said.

"No, thank you," said Owen. It was instinctive. He had been bred to refuse solicitations in the street.

"Come on," said the girl. "You'll learn a lot about our city."

Owen certainly wanted to know more about the city. But he could not give money to a cause of which he might not approve. "No, thank you," he said.

"Truth," said the girl. "Facts, realities. Can the search for knowledge ever hurt you?" She smiled and Owen felt that she knew far too much about his thoughts.

"Ok, I'll take one," said Owen. He pushed a quarter into her hand and fled to his hotel room, where he spread out the Barb on his bed.

The first few pages contained nothing but vitriol on the treatment of student protesters. Then he came to the classifiedad pages. San Francisco, he instantly saw, was a far more liberal city than he had ever realized. All kinds of sexual practices were freely advertised. As in all spheres in which professionalism begins to take hold, the language was highly specialized. Owen puzzled his way through. There were sufficient hints for him to have an idea what a ham-and-eggs specialist was advertising. It was pretty obvious what were the practices of kroons and falcators. But one advertisement left him totally puzzled. It read simply:

Muskrat Fun Anyone?

There was a telephone number, no further information.

Owen had trouble getting to sleep that night. He tried to count sheep, but they turned to muskrats and slithered off under the fence.

At breakfast, he went carefully through the Barb, looking for more clues. There were none. So at the airport, he pulled together his resolve and called the number in the advertisement.

The voice that answered was husky, almost a whisper. It could have been a man or a woman. In the background, Owen heard the sounds of water splashing and wild giggles of pleasure.

"I'm calling about the ad in the Barb," said Owen. He tried to sound mature and nonchalant.

"What kind of muskrat fun are you looking for?" said the voice.

"I don't go in for any of that way-out stuff," said Owen, thinking fast.

"He doesn't go in for any way-out muskrat fun." Owen heard the voice shout to someone in the background. There was an outburst of laughter at this remark.

"Let me talk to him." This time, the voice was obviously a girl's. There were muted protests and then she spoke to Owen. "How about some of that flat-tail stuff?"

There were shouts and a struggle at the other end of the wire. The first voice came back on. "I apologize," it said. "We're a very serious group here, for the most part."

"I can see that," said Owen. "What particular aspects do you specialize in?"

"Not so fast," said the voice. "I still don't know what you want. Get specific. What do you think of paw dipping, for example?"

Owen made a quick guess. "It's OK with me," he said.

The voice went cold. "Forget it, buster. That's one thing you won't find in our group." And the line was dead.

A loud-speaker was announcing the loading of Owen's jet. There was no further chance to find his answer.

On the evening of his return to Winston Falls, Owen took his girlfriend, Linda Hammacker, parking out by Lander's Lake. The moon rippled the water with shreds of light. Linda snuggled up against him. "I missed you," she said. "Tell me all about San Francisco."

Owen explained the warmth of the city and its wonderful people. He described the great freedom of expression of the metropolis and the nature of the Berkeley Barb.

"What do you mean you couldn't understand the language?" said Linda.

Owen fished the muskrat advertisement out of his pocket and turned on the dome light so she could read it.

Revulsion flashed across her face. She flung the ad away from her. "You think that's the kind of thing you show a girl?" she cried.

"What's the matter?" said Owen. He was genuinely puzzled. The week before, he had told her a couple of the rawest jokes he knew and she had been convulsed with laughter.

"You thought I wouldn't know what that meant, didn't you? Then you and your filthy buddies could have a good laugh over it."

"No, not at all," protested Owen.

"Well, I do happen to know just what that's all about," she said. "Take me home."

Owen vowed his innocence, but she curtly informed him that if he did not drive her home, she would walk. They drove in silence to her house, where she slammed the car door in his face and ran inside.

Owen tried to call her three times after that. Twice, she hung up when she recognized his voice. The third time, her father answered and, when Owen gave his name, made it quite clear that he was no longer welcome in his house or as a friend of his daughter. He added that if Owen continued to molest her, the authorities would be informed.

Owen loved Linda and did not want to lose her. But he realized that if he could ever make amends, muskrats would be banned forever as a subject of discussion.

Someone else should be able to tell him. His parents? His sweet, sheltered mother would not know. His father might have picked up that kind of information in the Army. But Owen dared not ask him. As president of the Winston Falls Junior Chamber of Commerce, he maintained a smut-free conscience. "If you don't think about that kind of thing," he would tell Owen, "you won't get into any trouble." From what had already happened, Owen could not dispute this advice. But he had to find out.

What about the boys on the company bowling team? Only Arch had been around enough so he might know about muskrats, but Owen did not trust him. Arch was loose-tongued; he might spill the fact that Owen had asked him.

Owen mentally ran down a list of the secretaries at the plant, crossing them off one by one as being too naïve to know or, if they did, being too shocked at his asking. He stopped at the name Alice Mittenger. She was a possibility. She was a pert young divorcee who was not the least bit reticent about discussing the intimate episodes that had brought an end to her marriage. She had lived in California. She would understand. Within a week, Owen found her sitting by herself in the company cafeteria and asked if he might sit with her.

"Sure," she said. "I hear you've been to California."

Owen took this opening and edged the conversation around to the diversities of sexual practices in the Golden State. He mentioned the Berkeley Barb.

"Swinging," said Alice. "My kind of rag."

"It's wild," said Owen. "I couldn't figure out what half the ads were saying."

"Like what?" said Alice.

Owen decided to move cautiously.

"What's a ham-and-eggs special?" he asked.

Alice explained with a lucidity that made Owen squirm in his chair.

"And muskrat fun?" Owen tried to keep his voice nonchalant.

Alice hit him in the face with her tuna-fish sandwich, plate and all. "You think because a girl's divorced you can say any kind of filth you like," she screamed. "We'll see just how long your kind lasts in this company."

Owen discovered that Databyte could act most rapidly when the moral well-being of its employees was threatened. An hour later, he found himself escorted to the front door and handed a check for two weeks' pay. "If it had been my personal decision, you'd not get a penny," his manager had said with open hostility. "We have no use for your kind around here."

So Owen stood in the parking lot and contemplated his future. It was useless to stay in Winston Falls. Word would get around about his dismissal. No one would hire him and no one would give him the information he sought. But Owen had glimpsed his place of freedom. In San Francisco, he would find the truth from those wonderful people who could accept any form of expression.

He lied to his parents about a job offer and boarded a bus for the Coast. The trip was a nightmare of rushed meals in stainless-steel cafeterias and nights spent dozing, listening to the roar of trucks passing on the empty desert. He stumbled out of the bus station in San Francisco, his mouth foul with the taste of air-conditioned cigarette smoke. But he had arrived. The city was the same, cool and glistening in the damp night. He found a telephone booth and called the muskrat number.

This time, a heavy and solidly masculine voice answered. "Yes?"

"This the muskrat place?" said Owen.

"Yeah," said the voice.

"I'm wondering if I can talk to you about joining," Owen said.

"Sure," said the voice. "Just tell me where you are and we'll come have a chat."

Owen had not dreamed it would be so simple. He gave his location and waited in the foggy night. Less than five minutes later, two men in heavy trench coats came up the street. "You the guy who's interested in some muskrat stuff?" said the bigger of the men.

"Yes, sure," said Owen.

"You been a muskrat very long?" said the man.

"Oh, a year or so," said Owen.

"How often?" said the man. "Once or twice a week?"

"Yeah," said Owen. "Something like that."

"Any of the flat-tail stuff?" said the other man.

"Oh, none of that," Owen said.

"Paw dipping?"

"Certainly not," said Owen.

"We got plenty on him as it is," said the first man. He made a swift motion with his hand and four burly policemen emerged from the shadows, pinned Owen against a wall and searched him.

"He's clean," said one of them.

"You think he'd carry one of those things with him?" said the first plain-clothesman. "Take him in and book him."

As the patrol car carried him to headquarters, Owen tried to clear his thoughts. His arrest was not a total disaster, he told himself. Even if he were sentenced, they would have to describe in detail the crimes of which he was supposedly guilty.

He was wrong. His court-appointed lawyer was a nervous young man just out of law school, who obviously wanted the case closed and forgotten as rapidly as possible. With ill-concealed revulsion, he questioned Owen briefly about his actions.

"Judge Meyers goes heavy on this kind of thing," was his comment when Owen had finished. "The best thing to do is to plead guilty and hope that he didn't have any sausages for breakfast."

"How's that?" Owen said.

"Sausages, Italian sausages," said the lawyer. "If he eats them, he gets indigestion. And when his stomach aches, things go hard for the guilty."

"But," said Owen, "I don't think I'm guilty. Don't I have to be caught in the act or something?"

"Are you kidding?" said the lawyer. "They've taken the teeth out of most of the laws, but not this one, thank goodness. You're the first one I've ever heard of who didn't admit that just thinking about it is grounds for a good stiff sentence. In my opinion, you should welcome a bit of time in jail. A chance to think over what you've been doing. Get a grip on yourself."

The lawyer thought he could get Owen a light sentence if he were willing to plead guilty to lewd and lascivious conduct and Owen reluctantly agreed.

Judge Meyers turned out to be an iron-faced gentleman who disposed of traffic violations with a crisp efficiency that chilled Owen's heart.

Then Owen was called to the bench and his lawyer entered his plea. The judge motioned to the bench one of the plainclothesmen who had arrested Owen.

"This one of them muskrats?" he asked.

The man nodded.

The judge belched and agony flicked across his face. "What's the maximum?" he asked the clerk.

"Sixty days."

"Sixty days," said the judge. "Next case."

Owen thanked his lawyer for all he had done for him and was taken off to serve his sentence.

His cell was already occupied by a thin and bearded young man whose face radiated great compassion and understanding. He rose and greeted Owen warmly. "We must forgive their brutality," he said. "It is the only way they can express a need that society has suppressed."

"I don't understand," said Owen.

"Inhibition," said the youth, with the passion of his cause glowing in his eyes, "sexual inhibition. War! Lust! Man's inhumanity to man! Do you know what drove Napoleon to conquest? The mores of his society forbade him from the sexual expression he desired with Josephine. His only socially acceptable outlet was war! But it is possible to achieve a new morality of freedom, freedom for any means of expression."

"Any?" said Owen.

"Of course," said the young man.

"Does that include kroons?" said Owen.

The youth laughed. "The Greeks accepted kroons," he said.

Owen was still cautious. "How about falcators?" he said.

"Half the Chinese aristocracy during the Ming dynasty were falcators."

"And what about muskrats?" said Owen, with his heart thudding in his chest.

The joy of a beloved discourse dissolved from the youth's face. It was replaced by a look of wary cunning. "They always bring up muskrats," he said. "They do not understand that there are some things that are natural and some that are unnatural and abhorrent."

"What's so wrong with a little muskrat fun?" said Owen. "As long as you stay away from the flat-tail stuff."

"You foulmouthed punk," said the youth. "It's creeps like you that are destroying our cause. Filth and garbage riding on the clean wave of our purity. They may force me to dwell with dirt; I need not communicate with you." He climbed into his bunk and turned his back to Owen.

On the following morning, the young man demanded to be removed from Owen's presence, and for the rest of his stay, Owen occupied a cell by himself. He wrote to his parents a full confession of what had happened and received a letter from his mother.

Your father has forbidden me to write to you. But I want you to know that I still believe in you and know that you will seek to live the rest of your life dedicated to redeeming yourself in the eyes of society. Of course, we can never have you in our home again. But somewhere, there must be a religious order that will take you in and help you toward salvation, at least in the eyes of God.

Ever disappointed, Mother

Owen crumpled the letter and hurled it into a corner of his cell. The fire of despair was beginning to burn within him. He had been trampled by the world only because he had been curious. Even in San Francisco, freedom was a lie.

Or was the flaw within himself? Had he been wrong in asking for understanding before belief? "Muskrat fun," he said to himself. "Muskrat fun." The words had a lilt to them, a simplicity that belied obscenity. If there was truth, it was in the simplicity of belief. The world in its madness could not face the searing light of such faith.

During the last week of his sentence, Owen refused all food, took only small sips of water and spoke to no one. When he was released, he stood on the sidewalk outside the jail and smiled at the people about him. "Muskrat fun," he said aloud. "Muskrat fun for everyone."

A couple of passers-by turned and looked at him. "Muskrat fun," Owen said as he started walking slowly up the street. "Muskrat fun for everyone!" His words rang clear in the bright morning sunshine.

The mob gathered slowly behind him. At first, it was just a few toughs who trailed him, watching and wary in their tight pants and leather jackets, plus a couple of drunks, stumbling along, caught in the first hint of excitement.

"Muskrat fun!" Owen shouted. "Muskrat fun for everyone!"

Slowly the crowd began to build. Two passing sailors turned and looked at each other when they heard his cry. "That's not what I'm fighting to defend," Owen heard one of them say. They joined the pack behind him.

Now Owen could hear catches of voices. "Not going to let it go on." "People gotta act!"

The next time Owen glanced back, he saw that they had grown to almost 50. There were businessmen, stalking along with their briefcases clutched in their white-knuckled hands. And women, swinging their shopping bags with menace in their eyes.

"Muskrat fun!" Owen shouted. "Muskrat fun for everyone!" He rolled the words long and loud, thrilled with the power of his voice.

The mutter of the mob rose in response. They were moving closer. Owen began to recognize one man's voice raised above the rest. "The law's too slow! We gotta take our own action!"

A fat matron in a fur jacket moved out of the body of the crowd and jabbed at Owen with her umbrella. "You show me, lady," came the man's voice. "You got more guts than the whole lot of 'em."

"Muskrat fun!" Owen shouted. "Muskrat fun for everyone!" The words were solid now, cannon balls fired into the guts of the world.

The crowd pressed up beside him. Angry faces spat at him and disappeared. Suddenly, there was a mass of people blocking his way. Owen was forced back against the wall of a building', confronted with a semicircle of hostile faces. He stared at them one at a time, until each turned his eyes away.

Owen leaned against the solid brick of the wall behind him. His head reeled with hunger and the purity of his belief. As a defender of an unknown faith, he had no doubts about his cause, for doubts are spawned of details.

"Tell me," he shouted, "what is wrong with muskrat fun? Muskrat fun for everyone!"

The faces distorted into angry snarls. Faintly, there came to Owen the wail of distant sirens. Then the crowd bulged and a figure burst through. It was the young man from Owen's jail cell. He stood beside Owen and raised his hands for attention.

"Do not do it," the young man shouted. "You're playing into their hands. All they want is a martyr for their rotten cause."

The crowd moved restlessly. Heads in the front turned to look behind them. The sirens wailed closer.

He saw that they were wavering on the edge of reason. Once again, he would be cheated.

"Muskrat fun!" he shouted. All the fire of his belief was in his words. "Flat-tail stuff! Paw dipping!"

A stone hit him in the chest before he had finished his cry. The young man tried to throw himself between Owen and the crowd, but arms came out of the mass of people and dragged him away. The crowd spread apart a little for more throwing room. Then they began. Stones. Half bricks. Bottles. They came arching down on him from the back of the crowd and straight at him from those in front. Owen stood with his hands at his sides and felt the pain spouting over his body. In his last view of the mob, he saw the girl who had sold him the Barb smiling at him with sad wisdom. She was taking smooth rocks out of the pockets of her field jacket and handing them to a businessman in a black overcoat who stood next to her. "For my kids!" the man screamed as he threw. "For my kids!"

Then pain smashed against his forehead and drove him to his knees. Instantly, the crowd was upon him, kicking and jabbing. The last sounds that Owen heard were the squealing of tires and the fading wail of the sirens.

So Owen died and joined the vast army of those who destroy themselves for causes they do not comprehend. But he died in full belief, which is a comfort.

Do you think that Owen was a fool? If so, make sure you know the heart of your belief before you die for it. In any case, one word of caution: Stay clear of that flat-tail stuff.