Pincus of the little mustache. I’d been sent to him, as he was the chair of the philosophy department at City. “Sisyphean Dilemmas — Among Other Things: Marriage, the Gun, and the Black Aesthete” was the paper my instructor had accused me of plagiarizing. He’d been waiting for me outside his office, so casually that it seemed he didn’t belong there. Dressed more like a stylish preacher than an academic, the Hegel scholar turned civil rights leader, turned man of God and professor. He had close-cropped hair, medium brown, medium height. Stocky but with delicate features, lotioned hands and neat nails, the crisp chin and that damn little mustache — groomed like a vain lady’s eyebrow.
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry. .”
“No need to apologize, man.”
He led me into his cramped office, made smaller by the lone institutional window, the three walls of books around his metal desk, and his presence, there behind the desk, looking out at me as though I was some favorite nephew of a childless man.
“About the paper, sir. .”
He waved me off. “Stop, stop, I know it’s yours. Papers that contain ideas and are for the most part free of grammatical errors are rare birds in these parts. The alarm went off.” He looked out the window, clad in brown anodized aluminum, south down Lexington Avenue, and watched the cars rushing downtown. I took the chance to scan his desk, the room. High up on a shelf was a framed photo of what looked to be a very young Pincus sitting in a diner booth with King, Andrew Young, and someone I couldn’t recognize. There were empty plates and coffee mugs on the table. They looked tired — powerful tired, like they’d just finished something they’d been working hard at — the tired of the satisfied.
He cleared his throat. “Sometimes,” he began with a light preacher lilt, pointing out at the cars. “Sometimes on a wet night the taillights blur together and from up here that road looks like a red stream — like what I imagine a blood vessel to be like. The headlamps’ yellow and the red circles, like blood cells, you know.” He opened a file. “But I see here that you’re a poet? You’re probably offended by my metaphorical stew, eh?”
“No, sir.”
“I used to dabble in the fine arts, too, but I had no skill and it was a different time.” He ran a finger across the mustache. “What are your plans?”
“My major?”
“No, son, your plans.”
“Well, I’m just trying to, I suppose, right the ship.”
“Fine. Fine. We all stray off course a bit.” He leaned in to make the point. “All of us.”
“I suppose I’d like to get my degree, perhaps teach.”
“Continue writing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To what end?” He opened my paper and pretended to read it. “You’ve touched on some interesting points in here. Subversive, but interesting.” He tapped the sheets, then handed it to me. “I’m curious; you said something about righting the ship?”
“Yes.”
He leaned onto the desktop, brought his head down low but still, somehow, held it erect. “Is that ship right now?” He waited for a moment, then began shaking his head. He pushed back from the desk. “I don’t mind a poet, man — I don’t mind a poet at all. We need them. But I’ll have every woolly-headed artist swinging from light poles by morning, just like those damned tennis shoes the kids like to throw up there, if it means getting something done in this world.” He folded his fingers behind his head and reclined.
“That’s a joke, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Based on a literary reference.”
“I know, sir.”
“It was ironic.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It was funny.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We demagogues can be subversive, too. Hoo!” He howled with laughter. Pointed, “Gotcha!” He leaned forward again. “You know they took all the fun out of your generation. You watched too much of that damn protest footage in social studies. Everyone’s all steely and severe. You know,” he said thumbing in the direction of the photograph. “Dr. King had a great sense of humor.”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
He pushed back, took a big book from the shelf and held it out for me. “Augustine. Ever read it?”
I scanned the cover, City of God, and was stunned somewhat stupid by the selection.
“No, sir.”
“This is for you—to borrow. When you’re done, come back and see me. We have much to talk about.”
And we did have much to talk about, or, rather, he had much to say to me. He was good to me. He cut a trail through the administrative bush, right into the graduate program without a BA. Nobody fucked with Pincus. Over the years he’d maintained his authority and kept the respect of his peers by not getting too big — staying out of the popular discourse and throwing in only with clergy and scholars. Privately swearing that he’d never leave the city school for the “private and elite spas.” And having me tacitly swear it, too. It was obvious to everyone that I was being groomed as his heir-apparent. I don’t know why it wasn’t obvious to him that I wasn’t the one. So it came as a shock to him when I started drifting away. First there were the grave looks of disappointment; then he turned cruel, calling my interests “archaic and therefore frivolous,” saying that “a man of my history, background, and talents should know better.”
When I get back to the garage, the attendant is waiting for me outside.
* * *
“The keys are in. You’re ready to go.”
I tip him five bucks, which gets a few more words out of him. “Have a good night. See you soon”—other pleasantries. I pretend to be bored by the car until I turn away from him. It’s a black Ferrari Modena — one of the things Marco had promised himself if he made good. Modena, where they’re made, where he comes from. “Enzo Ferrari was a genius,” he’d told me before with great national pride. And now, in the driver’s seat, looking at the testosterone-mad stallion on the steering wheel, I have to agree. Sitting in the leather-clad seat, I believe that I’m actually in the mind of a raging horse. Enzo, however, was careful to keep the division between man and brute clear. I’m in charge. All I have to do is whisper a command in the center of the animal mind. “Go!” I turn the key, and the attendant jumps. The engine’s sound isn’t equine, though; it growls, perhaps the sound a sleeping horse might make when it dreams of being a predator — some demon stud or perverse unicorn. Marco’s put only five hundred miles on it. I touch the gas lightly; the tachometer moves. I let it hover at 1,000 rpm and then release. I have to smile. I’m in a leather and steel chariot ready to be yanked by four hundred crazy horses. I drop the horse metaphor. I drop the clutch, shift into first, and then, gas, just a little, and let up on the clutch. Less and less clutch, more gas, and I’m rolling. Enzo Ferrari was indeed a genius. I turn onto the street and pull over to survey the controls. There aren’t many of them — sunroof, stereo. I fiddle with them — adjust the mirrors and seat. I load up the jukebox and put it on shuffle, but I wait to push play. Five thirty. I have two hours to get to Midtown. I check the mirrors again, push my ass into the seat, flatten my back. I push play. “Fellas, things done got too far gone. .” Yes, they have, Mr. Brown. Yes, they have. Mr. Brown calls again and gets the needed response. I put the car in gear and rumble into the traffic.