("You just don't get it," my feminist critics will carp, to whom I hotly reply, "I get plenty.") It had been a day of trial, to be sure, yet also a day of decision, and I felt curiously cleansed-yes, invigorated-as I crossed campus for my final appointment of the afternoon. There was relief, I discovered, in hitting bottom. Where others might dissolve under the strain, I strode forward with a stiffened spine, a level and withering gaze. I was the newborn son of Son of Sam. I was Saint Nicholas gone to steel, making my list, checking it twice.*

A few minutes ahead of schedule, I entered the plush outer offices of President Theodore Wilford Pillsbury, secure in the knowledge that I could fall no farther.

Already, in fact, my ascent had begun.

Upon announcing myself to a pleasantly lanky secretary-flat as Nebraska, limber as the Platte-I was led into a small waiting room, where the two of us engaged in amiable chitchat about that year's Humphrey Award. The young lady's eyes flashed with risque delight as she presented me with a sheaf of paperwork and instructed me not to peek. (President Pillsbury himself, I deduced, wished to break the news.) Her smile was conspiratorial, her posture just short of idolatrous.

I nodded crisply.

"Fine, then, no peeking," I said. "But if I may venture an opinion, I earned this years ago. Decades, in fact."

"So I've heard," said my rangy hostess.

The wait proved mercifully short.

I was midway into a delicious cup of Nescafe when a pager sounded at the girl's waist. Promptly, with a flirtatious little arch of the eyebrows, my doting Hermes rose to her feet and escorted me into the inner chambers of President Pillsbury. (Agricultural history. No relation.) My nerves were understandably ragged, my pulse was quick, and these borderline medical conditions were in no way relieved by the sight of Miss Megan Rooney seated in a chair alongside the president's large walnut desk.

To Megan's immediate right, also comfortably seated, was the ebony-haired, shamefaced, teary-eyed Toni.

Instantly, with not a word spoken, I understood that once again this was not to be my year for the Humphrey Prize.

I need not elaborate on the defamatory motives behind the presence of these two long-clawed kittens. A sad and ancient story-perfidy of the highest order-and for the sake of concision I shall recount only the highlights of the ensuing half hour.

They squealed.

They betrayed both my confidence and my far too philanthropic friendship.*

Over the next several minutes I gathered that it was the diminutive Megan who first spilled the beans, leaving Toni no choice but to save her skin by transferring all fault to me. (Apparently the two girls had squabbled again over Gopher mating rights; Megan had sought advice from an assistant professor in the Gender Studies department-a blackguard feminist who for years had had me locked in her sights. Within hours the whole spicy story had fallen into the lap of President Pillsbury.) The writing, in any case, was on the wall-guileful but no less apocalyptic.

With a perfunctory, altogether frosty nod, President Pillsbury suggested that I take a seat, an offer I gingerly accepted, after which the plump little bureaucrat cleared his throat and informed me of the "serious nature of the occasion." (The Doughboy's insipid wording, clearly not my own.) Neither girl met my gaze. In her shrill rusted gate of a voice, Megan summarized the ups and downs of my professional relationship with Toni, placing special emphasis on the deadly issue of a certain suspect honors thesis. I was additionally (and falsely) charged with a variety of killjoy offenses that could be roughly subsumed under the catchall phrase "sexual harassment": e.g., consorting with students, the use of explicit gender-related language, uninvited romantic overtures, classroom leering, closed office doors, after-hours dormitory visits, et cetera, ad nauseam. "The guy's famous for this shit," the wretched leprechaunette squeaked. "Somebody had to blow the whistle."

I blushed and began to defend myself, but at that instant Toni herself entered the conversation. The verb manipulate echoed like a jackhammer; the noun predator reared its monstrous head. Here was a flamboyant performance in all respects, an outrageous blend of indictment and tearful confession: the big lie gone berserk. I sat blank and dumbfounded.

Predator?

Manipulator?

What a nightmare! What a joke!

Toni exaggerated without shame, perjured herself, snipped quotations out of context. (At the same time, of course, the pathological little racketeer looked nothing short of spectacular. Black suede skirt, black pumps, bulging black sweater.) President Pillsbury also took notice. The man rubbed his nose, massaged his paunch.

And, yes, if one did not know better, it would have been the most natural thing on earth to open one's heart and soul to the deceitful tart. Halfway into her spiel, in fact, I was nearly sold on my own guilt.

Yet her allegations were not so.

Nor did Toni mention her own acts of extortion and outright blackmail.

Instead the gorgeous fraud claimed that I had "butted in" by offering "stupid suggestions" regarding her thesis. With a perfectly straight face, she asserted that the research was entirely her own, that I had done little more than "pick lint" off a piece of accomplished scholarship, that I had "gummed it up with a bunch of words," that my overall contribution could at best be deemed "no big deal."

"That's his job," Toni whined. "He's supposed to help. And if I didn't let him, the creep probably would've ... I don't even want to say it."

President Pillsbury blinked. "Say what, my dear?"

"You know. It's just too gross. You should fire him right now."

Megan giggled.

There was, I distinctly recall, a gas-chamber silence in the room-the quiet sizzle of those lethal word pellets. My world had gone to vapor, or to fire, and I saw no point in demeaning myself. I sat unruffled. I said nothing. Like Caryl Chessman before me, I would bow out with silent grace.*

The paperwork, of course, had been prepared. (It lay in my lap at that very moment.) As a matter of good form, however, President Pillsbury thumbed through a stack of affidavits from former students, each signed in a conspicuously female hand, each attesting to the many hours I had spent slaving anonymously over my trusty Royal. (A prodigious professional output by any standard: seventeen polished theses over a career spanning a scant twenty-four years.) It occurred to me, in fact, that a lining of the purest silver had been sewn into the coarse fabric of this day. No more deadlines. No more last-minute journeys to the photocopier. My time would henceforth be my own-time to burn-and there was not a filament of doubt that I would be devoting it almost exclusively to the pursuit of my rigorous and sequential new hobby: Vengeance with a capital-crime V.

I smiled at Toni. I smiled at the miniature Megan. Already I had the Ripper Itch.

The remainder of our interview was devoted entirely to procedural issues. It is essential to emphasize that I was in no way "fired" that afternoon; rather, for the record, I merely committed my signature to a number of documents resigning tenure, accepting a none too liberal severance solatium, agreeing to vacate my offices within the week. In exchange, the university would forswear public proceedings.

Was I embarrassed at all this? Did I turn scarlet, or sob, or display emotion?

Not in the least.

Signatures affixed, I rose to my feet.

"You'll excuse me," I said, "but I have a pressing dinner date." Then I beamed at fair Toni, gazing with genuine fondness into the girl's cottony brown eyes. "Perhaps we'll meet again one day."

"Yeah?" she said. "And then what?"

I shrugged. "Hard to predict. But I hope you'll permit me to bury the hatchet."

I arrived a half hour early at the Ramada bar, where I took immediate double-barreled refreshment and sat reviewing the day's developments. By six-thirty I had wound my way through all seven stages of grief. Like Vietnam, I thought: nothing seemed real. Near the bottom of martini number three, I was struck by the notion that some tiny quirk in my personality might be attracting all this betrayal. A magnetic malfunction. Or dysfunction. It was true, I reasoned, that my general approach to the world could be viewed as a tad out of the ordinary, particularly with respect to certain attitudes regarding the opposite sex. I was simply too generous, too optimistic, too candid, too openhearted. I resolved to repair all that. Without fire walls, I had learned, one ends up in ashes. (Fire: another entry in my lexicon of love. At death's very door, if someone were to scream "Fire!" I would instantly picture neither smoke nor flame, but rather the blazing image of Toni's accusatory visage.) From this point forward, I told myself severely, I would take the most extreme precautions.

For example: the two lonely maidens seated at the end of the bar.

They had been eyeing me-the usual.

Sissy was tardy.

I required companionship.

Still, once burned is once warned, and I approached the pair like a seasoned prizefighter, determined to size up these two very fit opponents.

"Thomas Henry Chippering," I said warily. "Professor of Linguistics. Emeritus."

As it happened, there was no cause for alarm. Virtually without a glance, as if anticipating my company, the two young ladies-Fleurette and Masha-swept their purses from the stool between them, which I ventured to occupy, and for the next twenty minutes this classy Franco-Russian alliance allowed me the pleasure of topping off their tumblers. (Fleurette: a florid little frog. White stretch pants, sheer pink blouse, flagrantly buxom. And the captivating Masha: slender as my Parker pen, Russian as a troika. Call me what you will-distinguished rake, jaunty ladies' man, expert angler of the flesh-but clearly the Chippering charm once again held sway.

Incorrigible? Dogged as the sun?

Perhaps so.

Yet after a day like mine, how could one respond to two such charmers with anything but a guttural Da or an effervescent Oui, oui? The will to survive cannot be thwarted.

In any case, waiting for the delinquent Sissy, I sat bracketed by Fleurette to my left, Masha to my right, our limbs in frequent and friendly contact. Initially, the conversation took a predictable course: Masha: "You remind me of somebody. I can't place it."

T.H.C.: "Martin Van Buren."

Fleurette: "Who?"

T.H.C. (with a sigh): "You may call me Abe."

Masha: "My God, that's it! Tossing shots with a fuckin' statue!"

Pointless chitchat.

Rapidly, therefore, I nudged the dialogue in a more profitable direction, summarizing with only minor exaggeration the ugly events of that afternoon. I could hardly be faulted for seeking sympathy. Fleurette (my favorite of the two) made toadish clucking sounds as I described the disgraceful beating I had absorbed in my own classroom; Masha (a close second, gaining by the moment) fingered the fabric of my trousers as I bemoaned Toni's duplicity and false heart. I told all. How Lorna Sue had deserted me for a rich, hairy, run-of-the-mill Tampa tycoon. How Herbie had driven an incestuous wedge into my marriage.

It was a relief, I must say, to open up. The dim, soothing, walnut-on-chrome bar seemed the ideal spot for such earthy confessions, and in my revitalized mood I made a mental note to fill out an evaluation form at the front desk. (The piped-in show tunes earned my highest rating, as did our basket of crunchy appetizers.) In short, I decided that there could be nothing more comforting than the whispery wax and wane of a well-tended drinking establishment, with its multiple prospects both upstairs and down.

"Now, then," I said. "Let us become fast friends."

It was well after seven o'clock when Sissy made her belated appearance.

The girl looked nothing short of radiant. A yellow mohair sweater instantly caught my attention, followed in quick order by a pair of tautly woven jeans, a necklace strung with ersatz jade, and a perfume whose primary ingredient I took to be coriander.

Her hearing aid was visible only to the most exacting eye.

Clumsily, but with genuine delight, I rose and made the introductions.

"Nice to meet you folks," Sissy more or less spat, then shot me a quick, questioning glance. The girl seemed disconcerted by the presence of my two companions. "Sorry I'm so darn late, but I couldn't-"

"The delay," I said chivalrously, "was excruciating, yet worth every instant."

"Well, jeez!"

"Exactly," said I, and reached for a pile of nearby napkins. "Welcome aboard."

Promptly, then, I guided our party to a booth at the rear of the saloon. I called for the house's premium champagne. "We were just discussing," I explained to Sissy, "the ravages of my day."

My sibilant secretary nodded with sympathy. "Yes, sir, it's the big buzz around campus."

"The buzz?" I said.

"Oh, yeah. Huge."

I could not help feeling a bubble of pride. "Is that right? Talk of the town?"

"Pretty much," said Sissy, "and you must be-well, jeez-you must be sick to your stomach. That's why I'm here, because I thought you could use some company." She lowered her eyes as if embarrassed, used a napkin to dab her lips. "Lots of people get fired and spanked and stuff, so you shouldn't-"

"I was not 'fired,' " I instantly retorted.

"Well, the way I heard it-"

"The man resigned," said Fleurette.

"As a protest," said Masha. "Against the stinking world!"

I shifted uneasily in my seat. It was true, I confess, that I had put my own spin on events, and with a modest wave of the hand I tried to make light of the matter. Water over the dam, I told them.

"There, you see?" said Fleurette. "The guy's a martyr." Sitting back, Fleurette appraised Sissy for a few moments. Then she smiled. "So listen, sugar, what do you say we form ourselves a little group later on? A barbershop quartet? Sound fun?"

"Quartet?" Sissy said.

"A foursome," said Fleurette. "Like in golf."

Sissy looked at me with obvious alarm. (I was shocked myself. The Ramada, of all places. Here was an item that would most certainly find its way into my forthcoming evaluation.) I removed Masha's stockinged foot from my lap.

"Golf," I declared, "is not our game." I reassured Sissy with a paternal squeeze of the knee. "Tell the girls about sec school."

Sissy blushed. "Hey, look," she said, "maybe I should just-you know-just take off."

"Of course you shouldn't," I said brightly, and again gave the girl's knee a tweak. "Go ahead now, fill them in on sec school while I visit the gentlemen's room."

"An actual school?" said Fleurette.

"Not sex!" sprayed Sissy.

Masha flinched. "Do me a favor, cover your mouth or something. It's like talking to a garden hose."

"Back in a jiff," I said.

Heedless of Sissy's protests, I slipped out of the booth and made a somewhat wobbly departure toward the lobby.

My spirits were high, my heart buoyant as balsa wood. The evening had turned out splendidly, full of promise, and I counted myself fortunate to have encountered three such devoted soul mates.

It was a surprise, therefore, to find myself sobbing as I stood at the urinal.

Where it came from I do not know. Moral exhaustion, I suppose. Lorna Sue's face flickered before me, those cold eyes, the utter absence of love, and I was struck by the heinous reality that nothing would ever bring her back to me.

Then an odd thing happened.

I was still trembling as I recrossed the lobby, paying little heed to my surroundings, but purely by chance, as I passed a set of escalators, I found myself in front of a small shop that had been converted to a travelers' wayside chapel. (Airports, yes, but here was something totally arresting in the field of hotel science.) I entered without hesitation. A pair of electric candles cast the only light, which was barely sufficient, and after a moment I edged forward and took a seat on one of three plastic pews. (Though Catholic by birth, I neither knelt nor crossed myself. It had been years-alas, decades-since I'd misplaced my faith on the vast, sterile prairies of my youth.) For some time I simply sat there: half inebriated, soul-sick.

Dumbly, I murmured the word faith, as if the utterance itself might awaken something in me. But nothing much occurred, just an incoherent buzz in my blood.

What was the point? All the points were pointless.

Pity, I thought.

A lifelong quest for love-a ledger full of names and dates-and it all ended here in the sad sanctuary of a Ramada Inn.

I saw nothing blasphemous in removing my shoes and stretching out for a short nap.