Straight Man

seventies. At that time I had longish hair and a beard, and while the campus had had no significant protests against the war, Lou watched the news every evening, saw what was happening elsewhere, and mapped out an entire strategy for when the trouble started at the Railton Campus. Years later, after the disappointment wore off, he showed me the chart he’d worked up illustrating various contingencies. It showed several entrances to the campus blocked off. The ball fields and tennis courts at the southern edge of the campus would be used to assemble the National Guard. Then, on Lou’s command, the troops would proceed along designated avenues, forcing the rioting throng westward toward the track and grandstand area, which would be used as a makeshift holding pen. It was the early eighties when Lou showed me all of this, and I could see that his eyes were still alive with the scheme.
    Just to piss him off, I said, “But there were no riots.”
    “Good thing, huh?” Lou said, eyebrow raised significantly, and something told me that the reason he’d wanted me to see his chart was not that he thought I’d be interested but rather because in his mind’s eye he’d imagined me leading a throng of militant students fresh from the burning of Old Main. He wanted me to see how close I’d come.
    It takes me a moment to place the third member of this unholy trinity. Terence Watters is the university’s chief legal counsel. I’ve never seen him except on television trying to obscure some fact or situation embarrassing to the university. He’s tall and well groomed, and he has the kind of face that reveals nothing. Behind such expressions convictions go to die.
    “Anyway,” Dickie says after a beat, “discretion, gentlemen,” adding, “Lou, I’m counting on you,” as if to hint at what is common knowledge—discretion is not Lou Steinmetz’s strong suit. Lou likes to make up a good chart and put a plan in motion with live ammo.
    I pick up the peach from the carpet and say, “Hello, girls.”
    Lou Steinmetz, immediately offended, scowls and actually clenches his fists. Terence Watters, on the other hand, looks as if he’s listening to a tape recording of ambient sound on a headset.
    “Terry, I don’t think you know Hank Devereaux,” Dickie says, which starts us all shaking hands. I offer to shake Lou’s first, and when he grudgingly extends his hand I put the peach in it. Instead of just setting it down, he tries to get me to take it back, but I’ve moved on to Dickie Pope and Terence Watters, and for some darn reason Lou can’t recapture my attention. I feel for him. It’s not an easy thing to be left holding a piece of fruit during introductions. This is the first time it’s ever happened to Lou Steinmetz, I can tell.
    “Hank’s not just the chair of the English department. He’s also a local television personality,” Dickie explains to his chief counsel.
    Which makes me wonder whether he knows about
Good Morning America
, if Dickie thinks I’m just local. The lawyer’s hand is cool and dry, my own slightly sticky from the peach, which appears to have ruptured when it fell.
    “Hank, why don’t you go on in and make yourself comfortable. I want to walk these fellas to the door.”
    Dickie’s office is lavish. Much nicer than Jacob Rose’s. My father always managed to secure such an office for his visiting scholar gigs back when I was a boy. When I go over to Dickie’s high windows to take in the view, I’m in time to see the three men emerge below, where they continue their conversation on the steps, Lou Steinmetz gesturing off in the direction of the main gate. Lou’s campus security cruiser is parked at the curb, and the three men stroll toward it. They’re seeing Lou off, I presume, trying again to impress upon him the need for the very discretion he lacks. But when they get to the cruiser, to my surprise, all three men climb into the front seat and drive off. If this is a joke on me, I can’t help but admire it. In fact, I make a mental note to employ a version of it myself, soon. Maybe, if I’m to be fired today, I’ll convene some sort of emergency meeting, inviting Gracie, and Paul Rourke, and Finny, and Orshee, and one or two other pebbles from my shoe. I’ll call the meeting to order, then step outside on some pretext or other, and simply go home. Get Rachel to time them and report back to me on how long it takes them to figure it out. Maybe even get some sort of pool