Ginny's run in with the cops and the ongoing lawsuit took some of the steam out of the Christmas of 1967. By her standards, it wasn't bad. Just a scrape, here and there, a single kidnapping by a young black cab driver who soon changed his mind, a lame suicide attempt—she jumped out of a paddle boat, tried to drown herself in Stowe Lake and ended up knee deep in muck—but that was about it. Comparatively fraught free. She finished school in the spring and got a degree. Her major ended up being Psychology, but it could have been in most anything by then. She was still short a few units in several majors, but her father's lawyer got the school to give her the thing anyway and it was in Psychology that she was short the fewest units. We worked together at the Main Branch of the Bank of America during the summer of 1968. I was a vault teller. She was a regular teller. I got paid sixteen cents and hour more than she did. Ginny called the guy I worked with—my boss, I guess you'd say—an ogre. He was a disabled Korean War Vet, who, because of the disfigurement to his face which was part of what went into the equation which qualified him as disabled, looked more like a gargoyle than an ogre if you asked me, but Ginny called him an ogre nonetheless.

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