Happy Retirement

There were muffled cries inside the office. I held back tears of my own. I’d miss my mentor, who even now, in the office, was teaching me. It was rare to meet someone you could entrust your secrets to—maybe even impossible. But I knew now that I could trust him forever. I only wish his retirement party went better.

Old Gateaux was retiring. It had been announced at the beginning of the term. He’d chaired the department since Reagan was in office and had been a professor for fifteen years before that. It had come down from the Dean. He had to retire. He no longer taught classes, a few years before he’d stepped away from that role. He’d been slipping for some time, though it only came to the attention of Dean Munchaus when an article in the campus newspaper exposed just how little Gateaux did on a given day and how much of his work I and the other junior professors did for him.

Like all news articles, there were bits of truth blown out of proportion in order to catch eyeballs. Specifically, Dean Munchaus’s eyeballs. I never figured out who sold the old man out. I had suspicions, just as I’m sure others suspected me. That was rich. Candace asked me if I’d done it once, after we’d finished with one another. Of course she suspected me. She did not understand loyalty. She was a mercenary. It was a bit of fun for her before she went back to Bob Gadsden’s office for "tutoring." She may have respected me more if I’d done it.

I did a little clerical work for Professor Gateaux here and there; I told the grad students how to grade papers; I organized a few department dinners and such; and every so often, I wrote an email for him and signed his name on some paperwork of no importance. I was happy to do it. The man was my advisor as an undergrad; he was the reason I made it through grad school, the reason I was a professor at Cartwright College in the first place.

I should not be a professor at all, especially of history. Given my opinions on certain events, given my positions on Churchill in WWII, for example. I felt uneasy about such opinions. I wish I could believe court history. It would be better for me. But it’s a lie. So many lies. I never shared them with anyone. If someone asked me my thoughts on politics, I said I was apolitical, which was as political as a man on the right could be in this day in age, especially on a college campus.

I often asked myself why I’d put myself in such a predicament. Why risk it all to be in the lion’s den? It would be so much easier to work a desk job and run an anonymous podcast and talk about revisionist history and shitpoast online with my compatriots. Maybe do a few meetups; maybe write some print on demand book that would become a status symbol for edginess in a time where edginess was enough to ruin your prospects.

I loved it, though. Gateaux made me love it. Teaching especially. Every semester was another opportunity. Maybe there was another like me in the class who saw through the lies. There was so much risk, though. I had no shibboleth to introduce. So instead, I made a note of who mentioned what in office hours. If they expressed anything even slightly heterodox, they were getting an A. Even if they were illiterate. I didn’t care. It was my own kind of bucking the system.

But Old Gateaux was retiring. If he were even a couple years younger, it would have been unthinkable. The Dean would have never dared get into his business; he ran the department like his own gang or mafia family. No one spoke out against him; all problems were internal. These days, he didn’t even have it in him to flirt with the undergrad coeds.

It was his retirement party in the History Building. He wanted a small affair. Just him and his people. Even then, about half of “his people” showed up. It was sad. He was once a pillar of the college. No visitor’s trip was complete without a stop to his office to kiss the ring. Now, a handful of people to either wave him off or to make sure he was really going. Candace was there, on Gadsden’s arm, though giving me the fuck-me eyes all night.

We brought gifts. The department all pitched in for a gold watch like some 80s office. Gadsden brought a box of Cubans, though Gateaux had given up smoking five years back. Someone had done some needlework on a throw pillow that said “Happy Retirement." A younger Gateaux would smother himself with it. I brought his bottle. 2012 Chateau Le Carré, a delicate red, full-bodied Beaujolais. I learned about wine from him, too.

“You’d think there’d have been a bigger turnout," Banda told him.

Banda was the Civil War ‘expert’. He was a Torber mouthpiece, of course, as all Civil War so-called experts were these days. I’d met Torber at a conference in New York; he was an unimpressive, small man. He’d changed his own opinions and teachings since his first book came out in the 90s. He saw the progressive writing on the wall and became even more progressive. “Reconstruction didn’t work because it wasn’t given enough time. We need to see how Civil Rights legislation ages for another 20, 50, 100 years to rectify what was done to Reconstruction.” Banda was like this, too, and it was not worth talking to him.

“At least we’re here, right? Professor Gateaux wanted to keep it a small affair. Though it does have all the makings of a taxman’s funeral. Not a lot of people show for a taxman.”

“It’s not right. What the Dean’s done to him. The man’s done enough to deserve going out on his own terms. Never even figured out who the ‘anonymous source’ was. If there was one at all. These student journalists don’t know about ethics, not like professionals. I think it’s irresponsible to let them run around without a proper full-time editor.”

I let the point sit. I didn’t have much good to say about journalists, amateur or professional. I had a tryst with a journalism student a few years ago when I was getting my Ph.D. It did not last.

“Why so glum, chums?” Carla added. “Afraid whoever the next person to sit in the big chair won’t coddle you?”

Carla Magee covered Europe. She was the "celebrity," the pop history writer; her class was the one all the students took; she was the one who went on television after Charlottesville, after Trump’s first election, after Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. It was all garbage, of course. Not worth the paper it was printed on. You could only make connections to the Nazis so many times until you sounded ridiculous, but I guess we’ve not yet reached that point. Her latest book, “Bloody Land: Ukraine’s History of Mass Casualties,” has been a New York Times Best Seller for five weeks now. No one had the balls to tell her Snyder wrote a better book years before. Not even Snyder, who wrote a blurb for the cover. “An Important, Timely Exploration of a People Victimized by Strong Man Politics...”

“Carla, I can’t believe you had time to come. I thought for sure some third-rate rag in Iowa would want to fly you out for an interview.”

“Don’t be like that, John. It’s not my fault I picked Europe when we were undergrads. You had a mind once. Wasted on Rome and Greece and Carthage.”

Banda stepped away. Women frightened him, Carla doubly so.

“Well, some of us actually want to do history.”

“Bitter, bitter man. You weren’t so bitter years ago. I remember. Senior Seminar, you used to tell jokes. Ones that would probably get you in a bit of trouble, wouldn’t they, John?”

“And I remember you laughing at them, Carla.”

“No one remembers the laughers, John. Just the comedian.”

She’d always been unpleasant like that. So political. If politics is Hollywood for ugly people, then academia is for the people too ugly for politics as well as the beautiful fools who are there for the knowledge. I don’t know which one I am. My soul is ugly. Were a new regime to pop out of the ground tomorrow like a fresh daisy, I’d put my colleagues against a wall. Especially Carla. But for now, I love to teach. I love to hold office hours and discuss Xenophon. I can even get the strivers excited when all they come in for is a question about what will be covered on the exam.

I was good and drunk now, circling the punch bowl that everyone pretended had been spiked but was made with alcohol from the beginning. All so fake, as they feign excitement, “There’s something in this,” and then get to throw away their inhibitions under the guise of not giving their consent to it. I’ve sat through enough freshman, sorry, first-year orientations to know that consent is the apex morality of the day. All manner of depravities can be wiped clean if proper consent has been given. Carla may bed Banda tonight, and Banda will let her because his terror of her is a deep desire to let her bed him. Candace will go home with Gadsden, and when he’s fallen asleep, she’ll sneak on over to me. I may let her. I may even tell her I love her when my inhibitions are down. She will tell me she loves me, and we will pretend not to remember saying it over coffee the next morning.

“What the hell is that?” Gadsden yells, and the air gets sucked out of the room. Everyone gathers around the lounge chairs, and on the ornate coffee table, donated by the class of 1934, is a copy of Francis Parker Yockey’s Imperium. It is my copy of Imperium, to be precise. I know because of the beaten-up cover, the tear in the top right corner, and the crumbling dust jacket. I know because I’d lost it some time ago and waited and waited for it to be used against me. I lost two weeks of sleep agonizing over someone finding it. But no one ever found it, and no one ever accused me of owning it, and I lulled myself back to thinking I was safe.

And now it sat on the coffee table, staring at me. If it were my lost puppy, it would jump into my arms, clinging to what was familiar to it. But it was a book, so it stayed on the table, and I pretended not to know it. But someone knew I was lying. Someone in the room put my book on the table to be found, and I waited for the accusation. I could deny. I would deny. I’d never even heard of it before. The inscription on the inside is from a friend. We met at a kind of conference for other dissident thinkers. We have names on Twitter that are not our own. My nom-de-tweet is in the inscription. I could deny.

“Looks like a book, Bob," I say. Right out the gate, I build a shield of ignorance.

“Thank you, John. I thought it was an elephant. No, look at it." I step closer to my book, pretending it isn’t mine. This is why most guys in La Cosa Nostra have digital copies. I can’t. I read in print. I’m an old kind of soul.

“That’s a Nazi book," Gadsden declares. Gadsden’s been over at my place before. More than a few times. He’s a decent conversationalist. I like him. It’s a shame I’m sleeping with his girlfriend. He doesn’t know about me and Candance. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s getting his revenge.

Banda inserts himself; thank God. “Well, we’re a history department. Bound to be a few books on Nazis around here. Maybe it’s Carla’s.” Banda is the only one I can trust right now, which makes me suspicious of him. Every person in the room has been to my apartment at least once. Banda came over a few times to talk about Gateaux. He was worried he’d be fired. He was always worried about being fired. Maybe it’s not personal. Maybe Banda figures if I am removed; it cements his position a bit better. We’re not close, he and I. He owes me no loyalty. He’s on a tenure track and has to wait it out two more years.

“Don’t do that, Banda. Don’t put that on me," Carla replied, and Banda shrank. “Imperium is the rantings of a racist lunatic, trying to build off of another racist lunatic. Nothing worth reading about in there. It’s not mine. Maybe it’s yours, John? He writes an awful lot about Rome in there.”

Bitch. Though she’s asking, not telling. If it’s her, she’s being very coy about it. She doesn’t like me. That is well known. She may have found it at my place after one of our sessions. She uses the word "hate-fuck." I don’t talk at all. Every animalistic urge and ever-twisted fantasy I have, I unload on her. I have whipped her like a race horse; I burned her with one of her pretentious clove cigarettes. She takes it. I think she loves it, actually. She says she’ll never marry. I tell her I certainly won’t marry her. It’s been less frequent since she got famous. But she’s had opportunities. Maybe I’ve gone too far. Maybe she’s embarrassed explaining the bruising on her neck to the makeup girl at ABC. Maybe I’m a pawn on her board. Maybe she’s writing a book about me. “Every Woman Loves A Fascist by Carla Magee.”

“I wouldn’t know. Most of the books I read are from before Christ. Though you seem to know a lot about a book you hate.”

“Studying history that matters means confronting the evil in the world, John. Not all of us get to cloister ourselves in the settled past. If we aren’t careful, books like these can take prominence and undo the work people in this room have done for the world.”

If only, Carla. If only.

Candace says nothing. She has had the most access and the most to gain. She’s a graduate student. There are only so many slots for professorships. She studies classical Greece. She’s had me review her papers. Candace will do what she has to to succeed. She has told me as much. Before Gadsden there was Porter. He was her English advisor as an undergrad. He was married. If events were to be believed, he assaulted her. I know what she is, though. I know that Porter was no saint, but whatever went on between them, she outright started; if not insinuated, she wanted it. This woman is acid. But I love her. She says she loves me.

Maybe it’s all been a ruse. Perhaps she sees that Gadsden is next in line for the throne and wants to settle all family business before his coronation. I wouldn’t put it past her. I have shared real thoughts with her before. She knows my adoration for Robert E. Lee. I picked her up at a bar before I knew who she was. In between sessions, I laid there and told her how I wanted to be like him. She rolled over and tried to sleep, but before she could, I was ready to go, and she was ready to have me. She didn’t leave for three days. We didn’t eat. There was no restful embrace after. There was no after. Just going and going. I thought she was just a girl at a bar. Now she could be my executioner.

“This could be bad for the department if we don’t get to the bottom of it," said Gadsden.

“Maybe it was here before the part started," added Banda. “Maybe it’s a student's." Maybe someone checked it out of the library.”

He inspected it. There were no library markings on it. He opened it and found the inscription.

“To Yon Yonsin,

Mine were of trouble, and I was steady and I was ready when trouble came.

Your Friend,

George Smiley”

“What the hell use is that? George Smiley is a character from a movie, I think," Banda said.

“And a poem. Housemann”, I added.

“I’ve heard about this. Online trolls use fake names to talk to one another. They think it makes them impervious to the consequences of their hateful ideology," Carla added. She even talks like a journalist these days.

“Strange that you want to blame a student, but know who George Smiley is, Banda," Candace stabbed. Banda was flummoxed. He could barely get a word out. Something about how it was inappropriate for her to talk to a professor like that. No one had his back. They’d all enjoyed seeing that he was the target. It wasn’t his fault he was weak. Well, yes, it was, but not in this instance. I could have let it continue. They’d keep staring and asking him questions until he said something the wrong way, and it would be as damning as a confession. But I couldn’t let it happen.

“I have a hard time believing it could be Banda. James, you’re not a fascist, are you?”

“No, John, I’m not.”

“Good. That’s settled. I’m not either. Carla, are you a Nazi?”

“Certainly not. Not sure if I can say the same for you, though.”

“Please, besides Professor Gateaux, you’ve known me longer than any person in this room.”

"Yeah, and I don’t know a thing about you. You’ve always been secretive. Maybe this is it, hmm?”

There she is. There’s the spark of brilliance she traded for fame and silver. I hope she will suppress it soon.

“John’s no fascist. You may have known him longer, but I’ve been studying under him for three years now. I think I’d know about it," Candace spoke in my defense. That was the first thing since the book’s discovery that shocked me. Maybe she really does love me.

“I don’t remember asking you, Jail Bait. I’ve heard how well you know Professor Cargatter, just like you know Professor Gadsden and a whole host of my colleagues.”

“I don’t like your insinuation, Carla.” Candace turned to Gadsden. “Bobby, she’s making things up.”

“Of that I have no doubt, darling. You’ve always been a spiteful shrew, Carla. You’re not as young as you used to be, so you take it out on younger, more beautiful women. I’ve seen you in your seminars; you’re not very good at keeping it secret.”

“At least I don’t bring my paramores to work parties, Bobby. At least I don’t have a spouse at home waiting for her loving, loyal husband to tell her why I was home late again tonight.”

“You bitch. As if someone would be stupid enough. Or desperate enough. Why don’t you-”

“Be careful, Bob," a gravelly voice piped in. Gateaux had been sitting in his chair, eating his cake, watching the whole scene unfold, and it was like he didn’t exist until just that moment. “Don’t act so innocent. I saw what I saw.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I saw you put the book on the table, then you went over to get another drink and came back and started this little McCarthyist witch hunt.”

Bob broke then. “I found the book in my office. Inside was a note telling me someone here was a fascist.”

“You still have the note, Bob?” Carla asked.

“I shredded it. It asked me to shred it. Along with a few compromising pictures enclosed with it.”

“How very cloak and dagger, Bob. Difficult to believe. Would make a good story for your newspaper friends, eh?”

“Cornelius, I don’t know-”

“I have a room full of witnesses who’ve seen you try to set one of them up as a fascist, who know you’re sleeping around, and now I’m letting them know that this whole retirement scheme was your little plot the whole time.”

“Cornelius-”

“Why don’t we go into my office?" It’s not too late; I better phone the Dean as well.”

They went to Gateaux’s office, and the door was shut. The party broke up not long after. Imperium was left on the table. Gadsden would tell Gateaux that he got the book from me. Or worse, his story was true and someone else was playing a much larger game. I went right to bed, or at least tried to. I’d find out my fate in the morning. A meeting with the Dean and some human resources school marm. Maybe they’d let me keep my dignity. I doubt it. There was no use in doing that. My scalp was an excellent prize for them.

I’d gotten the call around Nine. I didn’t have a class scheduled that day; I could come by Gateaux’s office at Ten. A slight bit of hope? No, probably not. I’d seen Goodfellas. You want a guy to come in? One you intend to take out? You bring him somewhere he feels safe. No place is safer than Gateaux’s office. I’d walk in, “Oh, no.” *bang*.

I don’t want to give them the satisfaction. I march in ready for the shot. I don’t care. They can ruin me if they want; I’ll take it like a man. I’ll miss the students, the way I made them like history, the way I could see lightbulbs turning on over their heads when something clicked. Maybe I could teach at a junior college.

“Ah, John, my boy. Thanks for coming in on your day off.”

“No days off here, Professor. You know that.”

“Yes, well,” he paused. I half expected him to say that all my future days were off or something like that. “That’s more true than you know. With the unpleasant business last night, I’ll need to lean on you more than I ever did before. Bob Gadsden has resigned, effective immediately. More dignified that way. Family emergency if anyone asks. I know you know how to use discretion.”

“I didn’t think he’d be the one to sell you out.”

“Oh, I thought it would be. But then, I had plans in place for all of you. You don’t get to be behind this desk without learning a few things, like skullduggery. Thank you for your book, by the way. Your kryptonite turned out to be useful on another superhero.”

Silence. I sat in silence.

“I wouldn’t know what to say to that either. I had a student in the 1970s who became a professor when I took the chair in the 80s who was gay. Didn’t matter to me, but knowing that and knowing that he didn’t want anyone to know and him knowing that I knew created a few different barriers. Loyalty is tough. Very tough to come by. Easier to compel with fear. Can’t buy it; they’d sell it to the highest bidder. But when you find a loyal soldier, you keep him near. It could have very well been the rest of them. Might be Banda or Magee tomorrow. To think, those idiots had never read Housemann. That almost gave you away last night. But they were too proud to admit to not knowing the basics of English poetry. They don’t make them like they used to, John. You really have broken the mold.”

“And you don’t care... about-”

“No. Heavens, no. It’s all politics. I hate politics. Sure, I’ll have to hire a black woman to replace Gadsden for appearances and for politics, but then I’ve had my eye on a few who I think would do nicely. Gamers, women who know the score. I’m an old man, John. I know I should retire, but not like that. I’d rather die in this chair first. They’ll have to name a library here after me when I’m done.”

“So I have nothing to worry about?”

“I didn’t say that. There’s Gadsden’s piece of ass you’ve been screwing. I sent him those pictures. Pictures of you and her. I was your age once. I know the score. It gets better as you age, I promise. Gray hairs do something to their downstairs, and they’ve got the energy to keep you young. Until you’re too old and have to peep for your thrills. Perhaps Freud was right after all. I know you probably don’t agree given his... background. Regardless, that one is trouble. She’s a snake, John. I’ve seen it before. Gadsden was as loyal as you are, once. Until she started whispering in his ear, “You can be like God.” Crush her and get her out of my garden before the whole thing goes all Milton on us.”

Men crave certainty. Every day should be predictable. Only way that setting meetings, lunches, or dinners with friends can work is if we know that there will be a tomorrow. Yesterday, I was certain my mentor was a feeble, old man to be pitied. This morning I was certain I was going to be fired, cancelled, and dragged through the mud. Now I am not certain of anything. That wasn’t true. I was certain that he’s been keeping me under thumb for years now. I was certain that no matter what I did next, he had me. This weak, fragile old man had me in his grasp. I looked over at the retirement gifts. I saw the pillow. He wanted to die in that chair, didn’t he? His eyes go wide. He played it all so well, until then. Maybe he didn’t think I had it in me.