January 26, 2007 (revised December 4, 2007)
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I reported to the front desk exactly at eight. The receptionist sitting there looked like that generic age all adults were in those old educational films Mr. Keene showed us in class. Actually, the receptionist looked generic in every way for the Seventies: generic hair helmet, generic frilly blouse, generic peasant skirt. Only her bulging cheeks looked out of the ordinary. Before I could say anything, she greeted me with �Good morning! I mean, good afternoon! You must be our new assistant. Gerald, Gerald Blanchard, right?�
I nodded.
�Of course. You looked ready to work, all serious and stuff. I�m Martha Seebert. You can call me Martha.� I saw the nameplate on her desk�MRS. MARTHA SEEBERT in needlepoint, blocky beige letters, light pink background almost the same color as her bulging cheeks. �I ordered that by mail,� she said about the nameplate. �Nice, isn�t it?�
�Yes.� I decided to start hating her. She didn�t really bother me, even with her bulging cheeks, but I decided to start hating her anyway. I never passed up an easy target. I�ll admit I was pretty pathetic; I actually felt a little bad about hating her.
Anyway, I started working. For three hours a day, three days a week, I sorted mail, placed it into its proper burlap sacks, typed out purchasing orders, typed out files, filed files, cleaned our office machinery, took out the trash, and hand-sweepered the plush throw rug Martha had under her chair. Then, to kill the hour or two I�d have left after completing these tasks, I would read the women�s magazines Martha always brought to work (their Cool Whip-intensive recipes looked delicious) or listen to her talk about her family life. She and her husband Grant and her �one and only child,� her eighteen-year-old daughter Jill, would have endless fun together watching movies at the Henning Twoplex, or playing Monopoly, or taking trips to Presque Isle, and by the way, I should meet Jill some time, the two of us would get along well, she gets along well with everyone.
I earned minimum wage, two dollars and ninety cents an hour. Better than nothing. But not better than something.
Meanwhile, Lissi had started speaking up regularly in Mr. Shaft�s class. At least once or twice a class, she would interrupt the proceedings by saying he did nothing but complain while she, on the other hand, believed in getting results, and she knew how to get results, namely by �cracking down and cracking down hard� on everyone he hated. She thought �slutty single mothers should be sterilized� and �be forced to wear titanium chastity belts.� She thought �hairy feminists should be artificially inseminated with, ha ha, male chauvinist pig sperm, like with Norman Mailer�s sperm.� She thought �perverted movie stars� and �ecology freaks� and �dopey dopeheads� and �the Bolshevik professors here� should �rot in prison forever�one of those maximum-security prisons, with the striped uniforms, and the bread and water, and the daily floggings with the cat-o�-nine-tails, cuz I�m a cat person.�
Mr. Shaft would listen with obvious pleasure to Lissi�s comments. He particularly enjoyed her references to �Jimmy the wimp��the current president, Jimmy Carter. Mr. Shaft hated Jimmy Carter and would always spend five or ten minutes a class telling us in detail the latest abominations �that hick peanut farmer� had committed. Mr. Shaft would always end his anti-Carter rants with �Yee-haw,� failing to stress the �haw.�
Then two days before Thanksgiving, Mr. Shaft opened class by saying �Jimmy Carter is by far the worst American who has ever lived, I guarantee you. Now, I feel no joy in saying this about a sitting president, but as a true patriot, I can�t sit by and do nothing while our country�s getting murdered by this hick peanut farmer.�
Mr. Shaft really did feel no joy. He looked sadder than ever.
�To begin with, the president�and I hate calling him that�has murdered our image worldwide by not wiping out Iran.� The Iran hostage crisis had begun a few weeks earlier, with those students seizing our embassy in Tehran and taking several dozen Americans captive. �So we should treat Iran with kid gloves because, well, because it has oil?...Bull! That oil is ours by divine right! We�re the most powerful nation on earth, and we need the oil to maintain our power! Even if Iran turns over all the hostages, it should pray we don�t wipe it out just for the hell of it and take all its oil. Any country that gets wiped out doesn�t need resources.�
It went on like this for the next forty minutes. The president had �an obsession with treating Commies like civilized people.� The president had �failed to embrace the free market economy,� a failure resulting in �rampant inflation and unemployment and socialistic notions.� The �allegedly born-again president� had shown �an almost Satanic indifference to moral degredation.� The president �should have smacked his drunken brother Billy upside his head a thousand times by now.� Et cetera, et cetera.
�Oh, and I almost forgot,� Mr. Shaft said. �Really, how could I forget one of his worst transgressions? A day after taking office, he pardoned all the draft-dodgers from the Vietnam War. All the so-called men who failed to register. All the so-called men who fled to the People�s Republic of Canada. The second day of his administration, Carter essentially declared the struggle against Communism over. He essentially said our brave soldiers who had died in Vietnam died for nothing. Might as well bow down before the hammer and sickle.�
�Bitch, bitch, bitch,� Lissi said.
�Do you have something to say, Miss Kernahan?�
�Indeed I do. Complaining never solved anything. We need to change things, and not just by kicking Carter out of office. We need to reestablish our commitment to freedom, to the rule of law, to being tough.�
�I assume you�ll tell us how.�
�Certainly, Mr. Shaft. First, we should hunt down and capture all the draft-dodgers in this country. Then we should strap �em to bombs. Then we should drop those bombs on Canada, to punish it for harboring the rest of the draft dodgers. Might be the most exciting thing to happen there in years. We should use just plain ol� bombs, not nuclear bombs; the fallout and stuff could fall on our country and ruin property values. Anyway, I think Canada would get the message with just plain ol� bombs and send those draft-dodgers back to us, so�uh, we could strap �em to more bombs and drop �em on Canada, just for the hell of it. No, just cuz they talk funny. Oot this, oot that. Gimme my welfare check, eh.�
�Shut up, Lissi,� Peyton said.
Her face went blank.
�I mean it. Shut up.�
�Mr. Hunt,� Mr. Shaft said.
�Well, she�s such a phony. You do know she�s a phony, don�t you, Mr. Shaft?...You know, I disagree with everything you say, no offense, but at least you�re sincere. Lissi, Lissi probably hasn�t said a sincere thing in this class ever.�
�But does it really matter, Mr. Hunt? I don�t know if she�s ever said anything sincere, or if she�s a total put-on artist like my associate Mr. Keene��
�I�m a thousand-and-one-percent sincere,� she said.
�Yes, well, whatever the case, it doesn't matter. Your comments are the most thought-provoking I�ve heard from any student in years.�
�Thought-provoking?!� Peyton said. �She wants to bomb Canada because she thinks they talk funny!�
�And by saying that, she has provoked thought. She�s provoked thought about how our country should wield its massive power around the world. She�s provoked thought about the sensibility of traditional gender roles, about the leeches sucking our economy dry, about the perversions of Hollywood hedonists. Whether or not you agree with her, or if she's even serious about what she says, everything she�s said in this class has furthered the free exchange of ideas.�
�Really? It sounds more like she�s making fun of you!�
�I don�t think so. She wouldn�t have put so much time and effort into her arguments if she didn�t respect me on some level.�
�True, so true,� Lissi said.
�And why are you suddenly concerned with sincerity, Mr. Hunt? Maybe you�re afraid of the competition? Maybe you�ve started worrying about your final grade?�
Pause, with a capital P.
�But you really shouldn�t worry, Mr, Hunt. I�ve liked your performance so far this semester. I�ve liked everyone�s performance.�
Pause, with a small P.
�Well, on that note, I think we should end this class. Have a good Thanksgiving day, and may our country flourish.�
Lissi, Peyton, and I left the classroom together, only the second time we�d done that.
�You�ve convinced me,� he told her as we walked down the hall. �You�re a real right-wing nut.�
�Fuck you, really,� she said. She walked away.
Peyton and I watched her vanish.
�He�s screwing her,� he said.
�Huh?�
�Shaft. He�s screwing Lissi. I suddenly realized it in class today when he called her thought-provoking. Lissi�thought-provoking?! Why would he say that if he weren�t screwing her?�
�Maybe he does think she�s thought-provoking. Maybe he just likes her for her mind.�
�What mind?�
�Well, she has heard of Norman Mailer.�
�Everyone has.� Everyone but Peyton, I got the feeling.
�Well, still�you�ll need more evidence than just Shaft�s high opinion of her.�
�I could snoop through his garbage cans, at his house. See if I find any empty boxes of Twinkies. Chubby girls like her must like junk food, right? Oral gratification?�
The next day, I was sitting alone in my room at 11:29 AM, waiting for my father to stop by and drive me home for Thanksgiving break (he was scheduled to arrive in one minute), when the phone rang.
�Hello?�
�Hello, Gerry.�
�Hi, Mom.�
�I�m calling you with some important news....Your father isn�t picking you up.�
�So who is picking me up?�
�No one. No one is picking you up. You�ll have to stay on campus for Thanksgiving break�.Gerry?�
�Have I done something wrong?�
�No, not at all. It�s just, we decided just last night, staying by yourself on campus for Thanksgiving will help build up your character.�
�You mean Dad decided.�
�We both decided. You�ve made great strides these past few months, Gerry, but you still have room for improvement, and that�s��
�The largest room on Earth.�
�Yes, it is. And anyway, with gas prices so high this year, it�s just�� My mother�s voice trailed off.
�Yeah.�
�No, it is,� she contended.
�Maybe I could take the bus.� I was really a stupid kid. I wanted to spend the holiday with my parents.
�No, you shouldn�t. Look, please stay on campus. Your father and I want you to mature so you�ll be more successful in whatever you do.�
�Yeah.�
�You�ll survive, Gerry. It�s only for four days. And a lot of students stay on campus for Thanksgiving break, so you won�t be lonely. The dining hall will even serve a turkey dinner tomorrow.�
�Yummy.�
�And you�ll be home in less than a month for Christmas break.�
�With improved character.�
�Yeah. So, is there��
�Did you or Dad ever stay here on campus for Thanksgiving break?�
�Well�young people were more mature when we were in college. From the Depression and the war?�
�Yeah. I understand. Thanks for the history lesson. Goodbye.�
�Goodbye.�
My mother hung up.
That was the last time she phoned me at college.
TO BE CONTINUED
Nothing wrong with Jimmy Carter....Fiction, Home.
� 2007 David V. Matthews