“Right,” the boy says, coming to unlock me. The kid struggles with the key.
“Do your best,” I say. And somehow encouraging them to do their best calms the kids, and within seconds the cuffs are off and I’m heading towards the bathroom.
“I’ve got news for the two of you,” I say as I come out the bathroom door, fully prepared to fight them if I must. “I’m leaving now, but I urge you to talk to your parents — you deserve better. And I want you to know that what happened here today was a success, you did a good job convincing me never to do this again, no more Internet dates — it’s not safe. This experience was like a Scared Straight program for adults.”
“What’s Scared Straight?”
“It’s something for gay people,” the older girl says.
I don’t have the energy to correct her. “All right, then,” I say, opening the door.
The girl looks tearful. “I fear it’s hopeless,” she says.
“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Next time they leave you home alone, call your school, explain how you’re underachieving, how you’re tracked like lost dogs. You may be young, but it’s your life, you need to take charge of it.”
“He’s got a point,” the boy says.
“You’re very convincing,” the girl says.
“Goodbye.” I walk to my car, knowing their eyes are on me.
I imagine them moving from room to room, window to window, as they watch me cross the well-landscaped front yard, trampling the perfectly trimmed grass, which reeks of prosperity and the vigilant use of pest-control products. It’s midday, midweek, and apart from the fact that the plants are thriving, there are no other signs of life.
I drive away thinking they could have really hurt me. They could have tied me up, chained me to a radiator — were there radiators? — or kept me in the basement like some science experiment. They could have buzz-sawed me into pieces and put me in the abandoned extra freezer. If what they said about their parents was true, it would be forever, or at least the Fourth of July, before I’d be found. My head is spinning. I was held hostage; I am an Internet idiot; I am a wreck. Something is vibrating as I drive; at first I think it’s the car, but when stopped at a red light I look down and see my legs trembling wildly.
I drive straight to school. The department secretary looks at me with concern. “I hope you got my message?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“Your lunch today?”
I begin to sweat. “I didn’t have lunch,” I say, feeling the maraschino cherry rising in my throat.
“You were scheduled for your annual with Dr. Schwartz?”
I completely forgot.
“He had a dental emergency; I left you a message at home. Professor Schwartz cracked a tooth this morning at the faculty breakfast, and it looks like a root canal is in his future. He does want to see you sooner rather than later, so let’s reschedule for tomorrow — noon.”
“I’ll be there,” I say.
Office hour. It has to stop. Whatever it is I am doing or thinking I am doing with these “ladies who lunch,” it needs to end. Today I got off easy; next time, it could be far worse. I check my date book. Tomorrow I’m scheduled to meet a woman — the only thing I can remember about her is that in our chat exchanges she made repeated references to the 1960s television show Bewitched. My sense, or maybe it was my fantasy, was that she had something quasi-magical in mind and needed a guy to play out the scenario. On the other hand, my experience of this morning leads me to add a darker spin to it — now I’m thinking that perhaps she is some kind of a suburban witch practicing her dark arts on dumb dogs of men who take the bait.
I attempt to log into my e-mail from the school’s computer. I can’t get online. Somewhat frantic, I feel like I need to cancel it now, right now — not ten minutes from now, but right this second, while I am strong and resolved and before I lose my will. I go charging up to the department secretary. “Is there a reason I can’t get online?” I ask.
“The server is down,” she says.
“All over campus?” I ask, thinking perhaps I can run to the library and do it from there.
“Yes, the whole system is down. If you need to check your e-mail, I’d let you log in from my phone.” She holds up her phone — one of those twenty-first-century oddities with a slide-out keyboard.
Crumbs. If I log into my e-mail from her Android or whatever the hell it is, I will leave a trail of electronic crumbs, the same crumbs that I would also leave logging into my personal e-mail from the school’s computer. With a little work — the equivalent of a small electronic mop — they could trace my steps directly to “Bewitched101.”
“That’s okay,” I say, with everything suddenly less urgent. And in fact I’m glad the server is down — it just saved me from myself.
I head into class, prepared to discuss the origins of the moniker “Tricky Dick.” I begin by introducing the figure of Helen Gahagan Douglas, actress and wife of actor Melvyn Douglas, who served Congress for three terms in the 1940s — including while having an affair with then Congressman and future President Lyndon B. Johnson. In 1950, Douglas ran for the United States Senate, against Nixon. Nixon took advantage of anti-communist sentiment, alluding to Gahagan Douglas’s “red” sympathies, and launched a smear campaign, circulating anti-Douglas pamphlets printed on pink paper. Helen Gahagan Douglas lost the election, but coined the nickname that Nixon never lived down, “Tricky Dick.”
“Tricky Dick” was later used to refer to various Nixon behaviors, ranging from personal use of campaign funds to the spying, stealing, wiretapping, plotting to overthrow, and likely worse. When Nixon was down he got mean, and when he lost or failed he got even meaner. His confidence in himself went a bit too far. In Nixon’s famous 1977 interview with David Frost, when asked about the legality of some of his actions, Nixon said, with full conviction, “Well, when the President does it, that means that it is not illegal.”
The class continues to stare. I repeat myself: “When the President does it, that means that it is not illegal.” They nod. “Is it true?” I ask. And they look confused. “Think about it,” I say. “Rent the film.” I close my books and exit.
“I forgot my meeting with Schwartz,” I tell Tessie as soon as I’m in the door of the house. “I had such a totally strange day, and I totally forgot.” I get down on my knees and look the dog in the eye. “Tessie, even if I told you, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through.” I log on to the computer and cancel my lunch “date” for tomorrow.
“What do you mean you’re canceling?” the woman writes back.
“I mean I have to cancel,” I write.
“Do you want to reschedule?”
“Not at this time.”
“You cancel on me and you get no more,” she writes.
“I have no choice, it’s my annual review at work.”
“Your dick will die,” the woman types.
“Your hostility leaves me at a loss for words.”
“Fuck you.”
“Be nice,” I type. “I know where you live, you gave me your address, remember?”
“Is that a threat? My husband will kick your ass. …”
“Your husband? You said you were never married.”
“Oops. Well, have a nice day and good luck with your meeting. You know I’m kidding right, like if you want to reschedule, e-mail me and we’ll work something out.”
I unplug the computer. I need to more than turn it off. I need the screen not just to go to sleep but to go black.
The annual review. I prepare myself for lunch with Schwartz. I look up all things Nixon and refresh my knowledge on recent and forthcoming books in the field. I review my class list and try to match names to faces in case he mentions the child of a friend of a friend. I study the school’s annual report and gather my thoughts on the state of higher education. I depart, reminding myself that I am a player in the field and I am unique, I am a Nixon specialist.