It goes without saying that the Druses had a source of income other than Mel’s salary; the neighborhood, with its houses ranging upwards of two million dollars, was for bankers, auto dealers, corporation lawyers, proprietors of chain dentistry enterprises, and neurosurgeons, not college professors. In fact, had they chosen to do so, Mel and Bobby could have lived in a much tonier neighborhood than this one, could, in fact, have afforded the very ritziest, for she was the heiress of a very large fortune inherited from her late husband, Bert Redd, the magnate who had owned a great portion of the casino business and less savory enterprises in Nevada. When he was well into his seventies and had divested himself of his fourth wife, Bert saw Bobby, in ostrich feathers and sequins, on the stage at the Xanadu, Bert’s most opulent casino, where she was dancing to support herself while she worked on a master’s in computer science at UNLV. It was love at first sight on both sides. After a mad weekend of dining and dancing, and after Bert slipped a ten-carat diamond ring on Bobby’s finger and draped her with a diamond and emerald necklace, they were married on Monday in The Little Chapel of Eternal Bliss, serenaded before and after the ceremony by an Elvis impersonator. After one year of rapidly waning marital bliss, Bert went to that Big Casino in the Sky, and Bobby was left with all of the loot.
The tale of how Mel and Bobby got together is the stuff of romance novels or TV soap operas.
Mel, a bachelor, had just been promoted to associate professor with tenure, having cleared the hurdle at which at least three-fourths of assistant professors fall. He was elated, and his whole demeanor changed, from unctuous pliability to smug aloofness. As Professor Pottle Tinker put it, “Hrumph . . . Mel seems to be . . . hrumph . . . practicing to become . . . hrumph . . . a dean.”
As a reward for tenure well-won, Mel pointed his Toyota Corolla northward on I-15, toward Las Vegas, where he planned a weekend of madcap diversion, release from the serious business of studying and professing Restoration literature.
On Saturday evening, he was grazing at the all-you-can eat buffet in the Xanadu. Walking toward a table, he slipped and splattered a woman at a table with chicken cacciatore and caesar salad. He grabbed her napkin from her lap and began wiping the front of her white blouse.
“I’m sorry. I slipped on a wet spot on the floor.”
“Get your hands off me, pal!” said the woman.
When Mel kept wiping, the woman gave him a solid one to the jaw, and he stumbled backward onto an adjacent table, where a couple had deposited a tray overstocked with dessert delicacies, all topped with globs of soft ice cream.
“Oh my goodness!” gasped the lady. “You asshole,” shouted the man.
At which point two security guards appeared, one tall and spectrally thin, the other short with a massive overhang above his belt. Each took one of Mel’s arms, securing him, and the tall guard, addressing the woman with the bespattered blouse, asked, “Is this man annoying you, Mrs. Redd?”
“Nah. He tripped in a puddle on the floor. Let ‘im go.” Then to Mel: “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”
From: [email protected]
Nov. 7, 2000. I just voted for George W. Bush. The last debate convinced me. Gore is one of those left-wing big spenders. Bush might have his faults, but at least he won’t pick our pockets to pay for half-baked socialist projects.
Memorable day. The department just voted to give tenure to Faustino Ajaia on the basis of a first novel: The Gents in Pink. Of course, I had to read this junk about cross-dressers. In our day, Jesse, you didn’t get tenure on the basis of one novel. Of course, Ajaia is a PC shoo in: Hispanic author, sexually liberated subject. Frankly, I don’t think writing of any kind has a place in an English department.
Bobby and I are thinking about coming East over Christmas break. If we do travel, we look forward to seeing you. Those years of grad school at Wisconsin were great, weren’t they?
From: [email protected]
I can’t believe that you voted for Bush. God, the man can’t even express his ideas (if he really has any). “Families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream.” Wow! If he would say nuclear rather than nucular, there’d be some hope. I’ve always told my students that muddled language is a sure sign of muddled thought. Well, we’ll see what happens. Frankly, I think that Bush is an irresponsible jerk.
I’m sorry to tell you that Martha and I will be in France over the Christmas break. Another time maybe.
2. Peppermint; or Heart of Darkness
Late afternoon. Professor J. Melongaster Druse sat at his desk, killing time before leaving to attend the annual departmental cocktail party, looking forward to a few minutes of inert solitude, but on this Friday surcease from the storm and stress of a professor’s duties was not to be.
A knock on the door of his office. His response. Mr. Garth Timmins entered and took a seat, forcing Druse to pull himself together and refocus. Timmins, in his snowy white cheerleader uniform, a large purple C in chenille on his chest, apparently found it as difficult to leave his rah-rah attitude and bearing behind on the playing field as it was for Druse to rally the expected professional courtesy and attention. The clash in moods—Garth’s sunlamp cheerfulness and Druse’s twilit dourness—created emotional smog that hung between the student and his professor.
“What can I do for you?” asked the professor, anxious to get the meeting over with.
“You going to the game tomorrow, Professor Druse?” In his Speech 101 class, Garth had learned that conversations begin most productively with any point of common interest between the parties involved. This bit of wisdom, filed away in both his memory and his class notes, was perhaps the most useful and exciting learning experience in his three years at the university.
“I must confess, Mr. Timmins, the only thing that interests me less than football is baseball. Once the groundskeepers have mowed the lawn and painted the white stripes, the excitement’s over for me.”
Timmins laughed his professional cheerleader’s laugh and said, “Gee, that’s a good one, Professor Druse. I’ll remember that one to tell the team,” and he glanced at his Rolex wristwatch, his smile—the model specially designed for English profs, those strange birds who were for some inexplicable reason necessary for a well-rounded education, which, of course, Timmins wanted to get since that was what he had been told his father was paying for, and if nothing else, the son believed in value received—his smile was frozen on his tanned visage, and his golden hair was tousled just enough to look completely natural, an effect that was a constant preoccupation for the young man.
Druse assessed Timmins. He was a perfect representative of the university’s student body, those golden youths whose destiny was a home in Beverly Hills, a Mexican or black cleaning lady (“almost one of the family”), a Mercedes or Jaguar, a ski trip to Utah or even Switzerland in February—two children attending private school, season tickets for one “culture” series (the symphony, the theater), membership in a tennis club, and the deep-felt security that the proper values and accomplishments confer.
“Say, Professor, you know you told us to talk to you about term papers, and I have this idea I’d like to bounce off you. You know, the fops in Restoration comedy—I mean you’ve talked a lot about them—and, you know, I was thinking: they’re all gay.”
“Indeed? And what
