The Nix

by Nathan Hill

“Why did you do that?” she says, her voice now unnaturally calm and even. It is an eerie, barely contained composure with a dangerous edge, like a mob hit man.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  She studies his face for a painfully long moment. The snot pellet from her nose has disappeared. It’s really a remarkable transformation, all evidence of her actually physically crying has vanished. Even her cheeks are dry.

  “You laughed at me,” she says.

  “Yes,” he says. “Yes I did.”

  “Why did you laugh at me?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “That was wrong. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Why do you hate me so much?”

  “I don’t hate you. Really, Laura, I don’t.”

  “Why does everyone hate me? What did I do?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s not your fault. Everyone likes you.”

  “They do not.”

  “You’re very likable. Everyone likes you. I like you.”

  “You do? You like me?”

  “Yes. Very much. I like you very much.”

  “You promise?”

  “Of course I do. I’m sorry.”

  The good news is that Samuel no longer feels in danger of crying, and so his body relaxes and he gives Laura this feeble little smile and he feels so good that the whole situation has calmed down and seems to be at an emotionally even and neutral level now, and he has this feeling that the two of them have just navigated some seriously treacherous shit together, like war buddies or the stranger next to you on an airplane after going through really bad turbulence. He feels that camaraderie with Laura now, so he smiles and nods and maybe winks at her. He feels so free at this moment that he actually winks.

  “Oh,” says Laura. “Oh, I get it.” And she crosses her legs and leans back in the leather chair. “You have a crush on me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I should have known. Of course.”

  “No. I think you’ve misunderstood—”

  “It’s okay. It’s not like the first time a teacher’s fallen in love with me. It’s cute.”

  “No, really, you’ve got it wrong.”

  “You like me very much. That’s what you just said.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t mean it that way,” he says.

  “I know what comes next. Either I sleep with you or I fail. Right?”

  “That is not at all right,” he says.

  “That was the plan from the beginning. This whole thing is just to get into my pants.”

  “No!” he says, and he feels the sting of this accusation, how when you’re accused of something it makes you feel—even if you’re innocent—a little bit guilty. He stands up and walks past Laura and opens his office door and says, “It’s time for you to leave. We’re done now.”

  STRAW MAN

  “You know you can’t fail me,” says Laura, who is definitely not getting up to leave. “You can’t fail me because it’s the law.”

  “This meeting is over.”

  “You can’t fail me because I have a learning disability.”

  “You do not have a learning disability.”

  “I do. I have trouble paying attention and keeping deadlines and reading and also I don’t make friends.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. You can check. It’s documented.”

  “What is the name of your learning disability?”

  “They don’t have a name for it yet.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “You are required by the Americans with Disabilities Act to provide special accommodations to all students with documented learning disabilities.”

  “You do not have trouble making friends, Laura.”

  “I do. I don’t make any friends.”

  “I see you with friends all the time.”

  “They are not lasting.”

  Samuel has to acknowledge this is true. He is right now trying to come up with something mean to say to her. Some insult that would equal in rhetorical weight her accusation that he has a crush on her. If he hurts Laura’s feelings deep enough, if he insults her hard enough, he would be exonerated. It would prove that he does not have a crush on her if he says something really mean, is his logic.

  “What accommodations,” he says, “do you feel entitled to?”

  “To pass the class.”

  “You think the Americans with Disabilities Act was written to protect cheaters?”

  “To rewrite the paper then.”

  “What specific learning disability do you have?”

  “I told you, they haven’t named it yet.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Scientists.”

  “And they don’t know what it is.”

  “Nope.”

  “And what are its symptoms?”

  “Oh, they’re really terrible. Every day is, like, a living hell?”

  “Specifically, what are its symptoms?”

  “Okay, well, I stop paying attention in most of my classes after like three minutes and I usually don’t follow directions at all and I never take notes and I can’t remember people’s names and sometimes I’ll read all the way to the end of a page and have no idea what I just read. I lose my place while reading all the time and skip like four lines and don’t even know it, and most charts and graphs make absolutely no sense to me, and I’m terrible at puzzles, and sometimes I’ll say one thing even though I totally mean something else. Oh, and my handwriting is really sloppy, and I’ve never been able to spell the word aluminum, and sometimes I tell my roommate that I will definitely clean my side of the room even though I have no intention of ever doing this. I have a hard time judging distance when I’m outside. I totally could not tell you where cardinal north is. I hear people say ‘A bird in hand is worth two in the bush’ and I have no idea what that means. I’ve lost my phone like eight times in the last year. I’ve been in ten car accidents. And whenever I play volleyball the ball sometimes hits me in the face even though I totally do not want it to.”

  “Laura,” says Samuel, who senses his moment now, who feels the insult coalescing and bubbling up, “you do not have a learning disability.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No,” he says, and he pauses dramatically, and he’s sure to pronounce these next words slowly and carefully so that they’re fully heard and comprehended: “You’re just not very smart.”

  ARGUMENTUM AD BACULUM

  (OR, “APPEALS TO THREATS”)

  “I can’t believe you said that!” says Laura, who’s now standing with her bag in hand ready to indignantly walk out of his office.

  “It’s true,” says Samuel. “You’re not very smart, and you’re not a very good person either.”

  “You cannot say that!”

  “You don’t have a learning disability.”

  “I could get you fired for that!”

  “You need to know this. Somebody needs to tell you.”

  “You are so rude!”

  And now Samuel notices that the other professors have become aware of all the shouting. Down the corridor, doors are opening, heads are popping out. Three students sitting on the floor surrounded by book bags who might have been working on some group project are now staring at him. His shame-aversion instincts kick in and he does not feel at all as brave as he did a moment ago. When he talks now, his voice is about thirty decibels lower and a little mousey.

  “I think it’s time for you to go,” he says.

  ARGUMENTUM AD CRUMENAM

  (OR, “APPEALS TO WEALTH”)

  Laura stomps out of his office and into the hallway, then pivots and yells at him: “I pay tuition here! I pay good money! I pay your salary and you can’t treat me like this! My father gives lots of money to this school! Like more than you make in a year! He’s a lawyer and he’s going to sue you! You just took this to a whole nother level! I am going to own you!”

  And with that she pivots again and stomps away and
turns the corner and disappears.

  Samuel closes his door. Sits down. Stares at his potted windowsill plant—a pleasant little gardenia that’s presently looking droopy. He picks up the mister and squirts the plant a few times, the squirting making this slight honking noise like a small duck.

  What is he thinking? He’s thinking that he’s likely going to cry now. And Laura Pottsdam will probably indeed get him fired. And there’s still an odor in his office. And he’s wasted his life. And oh how he hates that word nother.

  5

  “HELLO?”

  “Hello! May I please speak with Mr. Samuel Andresen-Anderson please?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Professor Andresen-Anderson, sir. I’m glad I reached you. This is Simon Rogers—”

  “Actually I go by Anderson.”

  “Sir?”

  “Samuel Anderson. That’s it. The whole hyphenated thing is kind of a mouthful.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Who is this?”

  “As I was saying, sir, this is Simon Rogers from the law offices of Rogers and Rogers. We’re in Washington, D.C. Maybe you’ve heard of us? We specialize in high-profile politically motivated crime. I’m calling on behalf of your mother.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “High-profile crime usually of a righteous left-leaning nature, you understand. What I mean is, did you hear about those people who chained themselves to trees? They were our clients. Or for example certain actions taken against whaling ships and then broadcast on cable television—that, sir, would be something right in our strike zone. Or a run-in with a Republican officeholder that’s seen by millions online, if you catch my drift. We defend political actors, provided the media coverage warrants it, of course.”

  “Did you say something about my mother?”

  “Your mother, sir, yes. I am defending your mother against the state’s action against her, having taken over the case, sir, from the Chicago Public Defender’s Office, you see.”

  “The state’s action?”

  “I’ll be representing her interests both in court and in the press at least until the fund runs out, which is something that maybe we should discuss in the future, sir, but not today, uncouth as it is to bring up money so early in our relationship.”

  “I don’t understand. What fund? Why is she in the press? Did she ask you to call me?”

  “Which of those questions, sir, would you like me to address first?”

  “What is going on?”

  “Well, sir, as you’re aware, sir, your mother has been charged with assault and battery. And because of the, well, let’s be frank, the overwhelming evidence against her, sir, she’ll likely be pleading and taking a deal.”

  “My mother assaulted someone?”

  “Oh, well, okay, let’s back up. I assumed you’d already heard, sir.”

  “Heard what?”

  “About your mother.”

  “How would I know anything about my mother?”

  “It was on the news.”

  “I don’t watch the news.”

  “It was on the local news, cable news, the national news, newspapers, wire services, and many of the comedy and talk shows as well.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Plus, sir, the internet. The assault was widely circulated on the internet. You don’t check any of these outlets?”

  “When was this?”

  “Day before yesterday. It’s fair to say she’s reached viral status, sir. Meme status.”

  “Who did she assault?”

  “Sheldon Packer, sir. Governor Sheldon Packer of Wyoming. She attacked him with rocks. Several rocks, sir. Thrown rocks.”

  “This is a joke.”

  “I probably won’t be calling them rocks during the proceedings. More likely I’ll call them stones, or pebbles, or actually now that I think of it probably gravel.”

  “You’re lying. Who is this?”

  “As I said, I’m Simon Rogers of Rogers and Rogers, sir, and your mother is awaiting trial.”

  “For assaulting a presidential candidate.”

  “Not technically a candidate yet, per se, but you’re in the ballpark. It was on every news channel literally all day and all night long. You haven’t heard about this?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “You teach a class, Intro to Lit. It meets for an hour twice a week, sir. I hope you don’t find it prying or intrusive that I have that information, but it’s right there on the school’s website.”

  “I understand.”

  “Because what I’m wondering, sir, is what have you been doing with the other approximately let’s say forty hours since this story broke?”

  “I’ve been at the computer.”

  “And this computer is connected to the internet, I assume?”

  “I’ve been, you know, I’ve been writing. I’m a writer.”

  “Because the national mood right now on this subject is like: Could we talk about something besides Faye Andresen-Anderson please? Total saturation, I’m saying, so I find it surprising, sir, that you’ve heard exactly zero about this, and it involves your own mother.”

  “We don’t really communicate, she and I.”

  “They’ve given her a catchy name: the Packer Attacker. She’s quite famous.”

  “Are you sure it’s my mother? This really doesn’t sound like her.”

  “You are Samuel Andresen-Anderson? That is your full legal name?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your mother is Faye Andresen-Anderson, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who lives in Chicago, Illinois?”

  “My mother doesn’t live in Chicago.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her in twenty years!”

  “So you’re unaware of her current whereabouts, sir. That’s accurate?”

  “Yes.”

  “So she could be living in Chicago, Illinois, and you just wouldn’t know.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So the woman in jail is probably indeed your mother, is my point. Regardless of her current address.”

  “And she attacked the governor—”

  “We would prefer less loaded terms. Not ‘attacked.’ Rather, she was exercising her First Amendment rights using symbolically flung gravel. I assume from the keyboard clacking sounds I’m hearing that you are currently verifying this via search engine?”

  “Oh my god, it’s everywhere!”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “There’s a video?”

  “Viewed several million times. It’s also been remixed and auto-tuned and made into a rather amusing hip-hop song.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “You should probably bypass the song, however, sir, at least until the wound is not so fresh.”

  “I’m looking at an editorial comparing my mother to al-Qaeda.”

  “Yes, sir. Most foul. The things they’ve been saying, sir. On the news. Most horrible.”

  “What else have they been saying?”

  “Maybe it’s best you see for yourself.”

  “Why don’t you give me an example.”

  “Tensions, sir. Tensions and passions are running high, you see. Because it’s being seen as politically motivated, of course.”

  “And so they’re saying, what?”

  “She’s a terrorist hippie radical prostitute, sir, to cite one very nasty but for the most part emblematic example.”

  “Prostitute?”

  “Terrorist hippie radical and, yes, you heard correctly, sir, prostitute. She’s being rankly abused, if I may say so.”

  “Why are they saying she’s a prostitute?”

  “She was arrested for prostitution, sir. In Chicago.”

  “Come again?”

  “Arrested, but never officially charged, sir, I think it’s important to add.”

  “In Chicago.”

  “Yes, sir, in Chicago in 1968. Some years before
you were born and long enough for her to amend her ways and find God, is something I’m likely to argue if this goes to court. We’re talking about prostituting herself with sex, of course.”

  “Okay, see? That’s impossible. She was never in Chicago in 1968. She was home, in Iowa.”

  “Our records indicate she was in Chicago during a one-month period near the end of 1968, sir, when she was in college.”

  “My mother never went to college.”

  “Your mother never graduated college. But she was enrolled as a student at the University of Illinois–Chicago for the fall semester, 1968.”

  “No, my mother grew up in Iowa and when she graduated high school she stayed in Iowa waiting for my dad to return from the army. She never left her hometown.”

  “Our records indicate otherwise.”

  “She didn’t leave Iowa until, like, the eighties.”

  “Our records indicate, sir, that she was active in the antiwar campaign of 1968.”

  “Okay now that’s definitely impossible. Protesting might be the last thing my mother would do.”

  “I am telling you, sir, it happened. There’s a photograph. There’s photographic proof.”

  “You’ve got the wrong woman. There’s been a mix-up.”

  “Faye, maiden name Andresen, born 1950, in Iowa. Would you like all nine digits of her Social Security number?”

  “No.”

  “Because I have it, her sosh.”

  “No.”

  “So there’s a reasonable chance, sir. What I mean is unless evidence proves otherwise or we’re all the victims of an outrageous coincidence, this woman in jail is likely your mother.”

  “Fine.”

  “It’s very probable. Ninety-nine percent sure. Beyond a reasonable doubt. A lock, as much as you might hope not to believe it.”

  “I understand.”

  “The woman in jail, hereafter known as ‘your mother.’ We will not be having this debate again?”

  “No.”

  “As I was saying, it’s unlikely your mother will achieve a not guilty verdict here, the evidence against her being what you might call incontrovertible. Best we can do, sir, is hope for a plea and a merciful sentence.”

  “I don’t see how you need my help for that.”

  “A character witness. You’ll write a letter to the judge explaining why your mother does not deserve to go to prison.”