May We Be Forgiven

no better or worse off than parked outside the house.

    “ T oday we are scheduled to discuss the Bay of Pigs. …”
    Several students raise their hands and announce that they feel uncomfortable with the subject matter.
    “Why?”
    “I’m vegetarian,” one student says.
    “It’s unpatriotic,” a foreign student suggests.
    “While I appreciate your concerns, I’ll carry on as planned. And, indeed, the action was patriotic, if flawed—inspired by love of our country from within the government. The Bay of Pigs is not a restaurant or a food group but refers to an unsuccessful attempt in 1961 by CIA-trained operatives to overthrow the government of Fidel Castro. The plan was Nixon’s idea and developed with Eisenhower’s support but wasn’t launched until after Kennedy took office. In retrospect, the idea of a new administration assuming the responsibility for the execution of a covert action planned by another ‘team’ seems problematic. Nixon’s responsibility for the training of the Cuban exiles by the CIA was significant and is discussed in Nixon’s book Six Crises. And yet it is safe to assume that many activities of our government are passed from administration to administration—one sees this retrospectively in the history of the Vietnam War and, more recently, in Iraq. The 1961 failure of Kennedy to overthrow Castro, and the mess made of the carefully laid and then abruptly changed plans, aggravated Nixon and his ‘colleagues’ to no end. It’s interesting to note that several of the CIA players in this event make a return appearance with Watergate.”
    The students look at me empty-eyed. “Is any of this familiar?” I ask.
    “Nope,” the vegetarian says.
    I let the rope out a little bit. I allow the conversation to wander. I talk about history’s knack for repeating itself, the importance of knowing who you are, where you come from. We talk about history as a narrative, a true story writ both large and small. We talk about how one learns, researches—what it means to investigate, to explore. We talk about the value of historical documents and how that’s changing in the age of the Internet and the hard drive. I ask what materials they hold on to.
    “Texts,” they say. “Like, when I’m dating someone—or have a fight with someone—I save the texts.”
    “We don’t print out,” another says. “It’s not environmental.”
    I ask what their first memories were, when they knew there was a larger world, and who they think the most powerful person in the country is. It’s usually either a sports figure or a movie star—not the President.
    I remind them they are supposed to be working on a paper in which they have been asked to define and describe their own political views and compare and contrast their positions to the views held by leading political figures.
    “That’s hard,” one of the students says.
    “For some,” I say, bringing the class to an abrupt close.

    I go back to the car—the dog and cat are fine, though the stink is enormous. The cat, in a fit of anxiety, has shredded the passenger seat and used it as a bathroom. I drive home breathing only through my mouth.

    B ack at the house, there’s a note on the floor. “Big surprise coming for you.” The house still stinks of bug killer. I get cleaning supplies and go back to the car. I take the cat out of the car and put her back into the house—hoping she’s not asthmatic—and clean the shit and shredded interior as best I can.
    From the basement I drag an old webbed lounge chair and set it up in the backyard. I find an old arctic sleeping bag and make myself a bed of sorts and fall asleep, waking only when Tessie barks. Coming around the corner of the house, I spot a white van parked at the curb.
    The passenger door opens, and an Asian man gets out carrying a small white square of paper—a note!
    “Can I help you?” I ask.
    “I very annoyed with the man who live here, you know him?”
    “Which man?”
    “His name is Silver.”
    “I’m Silver.”
    “Where have you been? I leave you one hundred notes like long-
    lost
    lover.”
    “What is this in reference to?”
    “I have big delivery for you. For weeks I drive around with your stuff. I should charge you extra.”
    “What stuff?”
    “Your life boxes are in my truck. Where you want it?”
    “My life boxes?”
    “The shit from your apartment,” the other guy says, opening the back of the truck.
    The man and his partner carry box after box up