May We Be Forgiven

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.

    O ffice 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