Straight Man

Languages. There’s a red Camaro idling in the no parking zone at the rear door. Rourke’s wife is at the wheel, apparently waiting for her husband to emerge. Even with the Camaro’s windows rolled up, I can hear music pounding inside as I approach. Barefoot as usual, the second Mrs. R. has one foot up on the dash and is wiggling her toes. Another person caught in this posture might conceivably suffer a misgiving or two, but not the second Mrs. R., who smiles at me dreamily when I wave, as if she suspects I might wish to join her, take off my loafers, and compare toes.
    Her husband comes out through the back door just then, studies me for a moment, and observes, “You look like shit.”
    I tell him thanks, then, to my surprise, hear myself say, “Listen. Don’t misunderstand this, because I’m not after your vote. But I didn’t give Dickie Pope any list.” Why I tell him this, I have no idea, since I haven’t even given this assurance to my friends.
    Rourke nods. He seems almost disappointed. “Funny thing. I believe you.”
    “Okay,” I say, and for some reason I feel absurd pleasure at being able to arrive at this simple understanding with an old enemy. I feel better about it, in fact, than I’ve felt about anything for days.
    “That still leaves the fact that you’re an asshole though,” he points out, a thin smile creasing his lips.
    “Well, sure,” I tell him. “There’s still that.”
    Could it be that Rourke is also feeling the strange, momentary camaraderie? Because otherwise this is where our conversation would end. Instead he says, “You missed the fireworks upstairs.”
    “Which?”
    “Juney and Orshee. She called him a hypocritical little putz. Shouted at him, actually, out in the hallway.”
    I’m not sure how to feel about this news. “Was Teddy there?”
    “No, he was hiding in his office. Too scared to come out, probably. Now Orshee’s hiding in
his
office.”
    “Thanks for warning me. I think I’ll go hide in mine.”
    He nods, as if to suggest this would be a good tactic for a man like me.
    “So,” he continues. “How does it feel to be in your final hours as chair of this pathetic department?”
    “You sound sure.”
    He snorts at this, starts for the Camaro. “I can count. And don’t worry. I’ll be back for the meeting.”
    “Tell me something,” I call after him. “How come you never drive anymore?” It’s just occurred to me that the last half dozen times I’ve seen the Camaro, a car Rourke never used to let anyone drive, it’s been the second Mrs. R. at the wheel.
    He turns back toward me, apparently considering how, perhaps whether, to answer. His hesitation makes me realize that the questionis more personal than I intended. “I’m not really supposed to,” he finally says. “I started having dizzy spells around the first of the year. Blacked out once.”
    “I had no idea.”
    “It’s not common knowledge.”
    “I won’t say anything.”
    “Don’t.” Not a request. A warning.
    I’ve got half a mind to tell him what my own doctor suspects is wrong with me, just so the words could be spoken.
    “They’re running some tests. In the meantime she drives, so I don’t hurt anybody.”
    “And here I always thought you wanted to hurt everybody,” I say.
    He snorts at this but doesn’t appear to take particular offense. “No fun hurting somebody if you aren’t even awake to watch.”
    “Right.”
    He’s grinning again. He seems as aware as I that this is the longest, pleasantest conversation we’ve had in fifteen years. What can it mean? we both seem to be wondering. “We should round up the gang and play one more Sunday afternoon game of football. Before half of us get canned.”
    “Remember how Gracie played for a while after we hired her?” I ask. “Jacob would take the snap, hand her the ball, and then tackle her himself?”
    “Fucking Jacob. I’d like to snap that little prick in two,” he says, like he means it. So much for nostalgia.
    I shake my head. “Reverend,” I tell him. “You’ve cheered me up. As usual.”
    “I never mean to.”
    “I know it,” I assure him.
    A campus security cruiser glides by, its driver peering into the illegally parked Camaro at the second Mrs. R. “Go ahead. Stop,” her husband mutters beneath his breath. “Get out of the car and say something. I’ll feed you your revolver.”
    The cruiser continues on its way. Which reminds me. “What was going on with all the Railton cops