Write nothing down for them. If they attempt any kind of disciplinary action, do whatever they say and contact me immediately. I’ll have charges filed against them so fast it will make their collective head spin. And don’t talk to anyone about this, except Molly. Are we clear on that?’
‘Tell me I don’t have anything to worry about, Gail.’
‘I make it a policy never to lie to my clients, David.’
‘But it’s bullshit. You think the complaints are bullshit?’
‘You’re the man with the farm. You know what it’s like when you step in that stuff.’
I went to a tavern after I left Gail Etheridge. It had been a favourite in my drinking days, and I convinced myself they had a good menu. In fact, it was a bar for the locals, safe territory. I knew the people there. It had been two years since I had crossed the threshold, but some of them hadn’t even changed seats.
The waitress asked me where I had been. ‘Been sober,’ I said and ordered a tenderloin sandwich, fries and a non-alcoholic beer.
‘We don’t serve that crap, Dave. It’s the real thing or nothing at all.’
‘Possible to have a Coke?’
She gave me a smile. ‘For you I’ll see what I can do. But this sobriety has to go. You’re setting a bad example for the people who keep this place in business.’
While I waited for my order, I found myself reviewing my various conversations with Denise Conway. This was hardly the first time. In fact, less than a week into it, I discovered Denise Conway was becoming one of the most important people in my life.
It seemed to me there were two distinct possibilities. The first involved a series of misunderstandings.
Eager and insecure, Denise had sought me out as a familiar face. She wanted assurances that she could handle college. Having received those assurances, her insecurities began twisting legitimate praise into something sinister. The complaint she had filed supported this theory. She wasn’t quite sure what I had done wrong! Her only real problems with me she had expressed as evidence rather than a complaint.
My second theory involved Buddy Elder. I much preferred this theory, because there was not much I was unwilling to credit to Mr Elder. In this theory Buddy manipulated Denise Conway into filing a complaint. Johnna Masterson’s complaint made more sense as well. Buddy had fed his fellow graduate student choice titbits of gossip and then coordinated a double-assault on the source of all evil, David Albo.
Theory number two had only one tiny glitch. It wasn’t going to work. As a piece of sabotage the thing had no teeth. I put myself in Buddy Elder’s place.
Johnna Masterson had been handled nicely. She had been stirred gently and brought to a simmer. At that point I was sure Buddy had introduced her to his girlfriend, letting the two of them compare notes. It was probably even Johnna Masterson’s idea to march on Affirmative Action.
Denise, however, could have brought charges of real substance. Private conversations between the two of us could have taken any form. Why hadn’t I offered, in her complaint, an A in exchange for sexual favours?
Pressure, manipulation, insinuation, all the elements that make up a genuine case of sexual harassment, just weren’t there!
There was no intelligent explanation for this failure.
Buddy knew his way around campus. He was hobnobbing with professors who had experienced the inner workings of Affirmative Action as few ever experience it. Why hadn’t he exploited his opportunity? There was no answer, and so I was led back to theory number one, a simple misunderstanding. I didn’t like it, but it was the only logical explanation for the charges.
I was mildly surprised to see Buddy in my class that night, actually amazed to see Johnna Masterson.
Johnna had filed charges before our last class, but at the time I had not known that. I tried to remember how she had behaved, what looks she had given me, but it was impossible. The week before, I had not been under siege. I had been at work. I watched my students only to know if they were tuned in to the business at hand. This time, I hardly noticed anyone other than Johnna Masterson and Buddy Elder. Buddy made a great show of it. He quietly complimented both writers presenting their work that night. His observations were legitimate, though not particularly insightful. Johnna Masterson put on another sort of face. She had come to class because she did not want to let some pig ruin her academic year. Knowing I might have my revenge on her at my leisure and yet refusing to cower, she sat bravely before me with only a tremor in her voice to betray her.
At the break, I saw her talking animatedly with Buddy. Buddy was consoling her. I could almost imagine his speech. She had to hang on. Tonight and maybe next week and then I would be gone!
Or something like that. They imagined their position to be stronger than it actually was. Part of the climate of the university was a bold rhetoric that rejected even the nuances of sexism. Truth was another matter. Because students never got to experience the process directly, they didn’t know. The truth was tenured professors remained, even in these modern times, virtually untouchable. One heard about those rare cases of dismissal precisely because they were rare.
Though Johnna Masterson could hardly imagine it, the deepest wound for me was observing what this had done to her. Catching the gossip, as I was sure she had, she imagined some kind of salacious joking about her figure that turned her talent into TALENT!
I wanted desperately to sit her down and explain it all to her, but I knew I couldn’t. Even if I were allowed to talk to her about the case, I could not persuade her.
I could only say Walt Beery had said it. Walt had turned her into a joke. Me? Well, I was just sitting there.
Going along with it.
I decided at some point during the second half of class that maybe I was wrong about Buddy Elder on a lot of counts. Maybe my discussion with Walt about the new talent had made its way through the grapevine, and Buddy Elder, actually believing I was coming on to Denise, had brought her together with Johnna Masterson because he believed I was misbehaving. Call it theory number three: all complaints legitimate. I had quarrelled with Buddy because I was jealous. I had crossed some kind of line with Denise, taking liberties that if not overtly sexual were nonetheless intrusive and unprofessional. Denise had talked to me about her job, but it wasn’t my business where she worked or who paid the rent. And Johnna? Well, she was pretty.
Maybe I liked to mention the title of her story because ‘Sexual Positions’ prompted certain satisfying fantasies involving the two of us. Maybe I had enjoyed my talk with Walt without understanding the dehumanizing dimension of it.
Such is the nature of accusation: first we are surprised, then we are angry. Finally, we believe what our enemies tell us.
I was still coming to terms with my guilt when I talked to Molly that night. I was tired and so I admitted to being partially at fault for some of it. A misunderstanding, I told her. Two misunderstandings, Molly said. Knowing how it must sound I waited for the inevitable questions. Was I having an affair with one or both of them? Thankfully, these did not come. Molly listened with the impatience she reserved for all matters relating to the university and when it was finished she simply asked if she could read the complaints.
I passed them across the table to Molly. She studied each sheet as if to memorize the actions or reconcile them with what I had just told her. I ran through the complaints in my mind again. In that dark silence I did not invest Buddy Elder with fabulous powers. He was just a young man who did not like someone like Johnna Masterson being turned into a joke. If I was capable of that, certainly my intentions with Denise Conway were less than honourable. I was Walt Beery’s friend after all.
‘This is bullshit!’ Molly said.
I looked up from my masochistic reveries greatly encouraged.
‘Gail Etheridge says nothing is going to come of it,’ I offered.
‘What about your promotion?’ I shook my head.
Molly threw the papers across the table. ‘I hate that place! I think you should quit. Tell those bastards to go to hell, David.’
‘That’s just what they want!’
‘Who cares what they want? You’re better than this!
You don’t need their money. We don’t need it!’
I tried to explain that I had spent over half my life trying to get where I was. It was insane to throw it away
