Schwartz. On the one hand, I’ve known him for years; on the other, he took a turn, he teaches less, talks on TV more. His area of expertise, the history of war, makes him a go-to guy for a comment on almost anything. I’m thinking he’s going to ask me to take on more, that he’s going to say, Enough screwing around with this one class per semester, you have so much to say, so much valued experience, we need you more than ever — can you pick up another class or two?
Our lunch has been changed from the usual restaurant, where I always get Wiener schnitzel and he gets liver and onions and we joke about our parents and how when we were younger we never ate these things, but now that we’re the age our parents once were we enjoy them enormously. At the diner, all I can think of is my mother and her friends going out for lunch and having cottage cheese and cling peaches.
“Are we here because of your tooth?” I ask Schwartz
“My tooth is fine,” he says. “We’re here because of the times. I’ll have the soup,” he tells the waitress.
“Cup or bowl?”
“Cup,” he says.
And what else?
“A seltzer,” he says.
“And for you?”
I’m backpedaling, I was thinking turkey club with fries; instead, I say, “Greek omelet.”
“Home fries or French fries?”
“Whatever,” I say, suddenly nervous. “Home fries.”
“So — how’s tricks?” Schwartz asks.
“Tricky,” I say.
“Are you ever going to write that novel?”
“I’m taking notes, it’s really more a nonfiction.”
“You’ve been taking notes since he left office.”
“I’m not done,” I say. “The story is still unfolding; it’s an ongoing situation, more is slowly being revealed.”
“I’ll keep it short, then — you’ve got a lot to deal with,” he says.
The waitress hasn’t even poured the water yet.
“You have been with us for a long time, but times are changing. …”
“Is there another course you’re thinking I might teach? Contrasting Presidencies, George Bush Jr. vs. Richard Nixon, Who’s the Sneakier Worm?”
“Actually, we’re going to go with something else. We’ve got this fellow who has a new way of teaching history, it’s future-forward.”
“What does that mean, future-forward?” I ask, sounding more indignant than intended.
“Instead of studying the past, the students will be exploring the future — a world of possibility. We think it will be less depressing than watching reruns of the Zapruder films.”
“Oh,” I say. “Oh.” And nothing else.
“You’ll finish out the semester, of course.”
I nod — of course.
The food arrives.
“I hope you won’t fight us. Nixon’s dead; your students weren’t even born when Nixon was in office.”
“Are you suggesting we no longer teach history?”
“I’m saying your class has no relevance.”
“I beg to differ,” I say.
“Don’t,” he says. “You have no idea. We filled your class with overflow kids who had to take one history to fulfill the requirement and the Internet and Americana class was full. Trust me, they don’t care about Nixon.”
“But some of their papers were pretty good.”
“They buy them on the Internet. They get papers about other people and change the names — because, honestly, at this point they’re not even selling papers about Nixon, so they buy a Clinton paper and tweak it accordingly.”
“No,” I say, genuinely surprised.
“Yes. In fact, we did a test case in your class, retitling ‘The Morals of Monica Lewinsky’ as ‘Breaking Faith at the Watergate.’ You gave a paper that wasn’t about a break-in, but about a blow job, a B+.”
“Was I grading on a curve?”
“You’re out of touch,” he says.
“I’m a professor. We’re supposed to be out of touch. Remember elbow patches and pipes?”
“Not in this century.”
“How about I teach a class in murder, in memoir, in my murderous brother, in the American downfall,” I suggest; given the timing, I can’t help but think this has something to do with what happened with George.
Schwartz is unmoved. “I can’t save you now anyway — we have no money. Write your book, write a couple of books, and then we’ll talk.” He raises his hand and signals to the waitress for the check. “You know,” he says, “there are all these schools that now run programs on the Internet; maybe you could pick up an Internet class or two and keep your hand in.”
“That’s it?” I say. “After all these years? I get half a lunch and a goodbye?”
“I don’t meant to rush you,” Schwartz says, “but there’s nothing more to say.”
Seeking counsel. In a local church there are late-afternoon meetings. I drive by, see cars parked outside, lights on in the old building. A feeling of warmth and welcome emanates. I park and enter, wandering through the upstairs chapel.
“Meeting’s downstairs,” the janitor tells me.
The meeting is already under way when I slip into the room and take a seat in the back. The men and women gathered have the posture of familiarity; I sense that not only do they all know each other, they’ve known each other for a long time. I am the odd man out. I feel them gently shifting in their seats so they can get a look at me. Finally, my moment comes.
“Hi, my name is Nit.”
“Hi, Nit,” they say in unison. The echo of their voices causes me to draw a deep breath; it is the echo of acceptance and welcome.
“What brings you here today?” someone asks.
“I got fired,” I say. I pause and then begin again, “I fucked my brother’s wife, and then my brother came home and killed her. My wife is filing for divorce. And now, today, after having taught at the same college for many years, they said this semester is my last. I am living in my brother’s house while he’s in the bin. I’m taking care of the dog and the cat, and recently I started using his computer — you know, going online, visiting various sites. I’ve been making lots of lunch dates with women — mostly we don’t have lunch, it’s just sex. A lot of sex.”
“Were you drunk?” someone asks.
“No,” I say. “Not a bit.”
“Do you have a drinking problem?”
“I hardly drink. I guess I could drink more. I’ve been watching you all from outside. You looked warm and friendly and welcoming.”
“Sorry, Nit,” the group says in unison.
“You have to go,” the leader adds, and I feel like I’ve been kicked off the island. I get up from my folding chair and exit, passing the old aluminum coffeepot with its ready light, the quart of whole milk, the sugar, the doughnuts, all the things I was looking forward to. I am tempted to take myself to a bar to become an alcoholic overnight so I can go back.
“There are other places, for people like you,” one of the men says.
“There’s a place for everyone,” one woman calls after me.
I sit in the parking lot, imagining the meeting going on without me, all of them talking about me behind me back — or do they simply carry on?
As I’m pulling out of the lot, Claire calls on my cell phone. “We should sell the parking space,” she says.
“Sure,” I say. “We can if you want. Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“I don’t drive, remember? I’m selling the parking space to the people upstairs.”
“The ones with the screaming kids who run up and down on our heads all day and all night.”
“Yes,” she says. “They have a minivan, and they offered twenty-six thousand dollars.”