Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (28)

She’s a nice person, Alma observed. She always checks on my grandmother.

She’s very nice, I agreed. Well, it’s a pleasure to see you girls. I should, uh… my aunt’s waiting…

They nodded, and headed on their way. I started in the direction of Unit 18, in case they were watching, which of course they were, because kids are always watching. Elena called out, Nice hat, Mr. Weede! and I gave them a friendly wave without turning around.



* * *



I don’t know what I was thinking in those days, how I imagined I’d get away with it.

I guess I wasn’t thinking at all.

Or maybe I wanted to get caught.

To burn it all down.

The only way I can explain it is to say that I was a little crazy back then, a little desperate. I was in my late fifties, bored with my marriage and frustrated with my job. Yes, I was Principal, but that was the last stop on the train. There was nowhere to go after that except out to pasture.

It wasn’t enough. Not even close.

Also, I was getting old. I could feel the early warnings. Little aches and mysterious tingles. Afternoon catnaps at my desk. Trouble putting my socks on. On top of that, my dick had begun letting me down, which was the greatest betrayal of all. Alice told me it didn’t matter to her, and I knew she was telling the truth. But it mattered to me.

It mattered a lot—more than I’d like to admit—so I spoke to my doctor, and at least that problem got fixed. I don’t know what men did back before the medication. Did they just give up, say goodbye to all that? Because that really wasn’t an option for me.

I was restless, looking for an adventure, a way to prove to myself that the story wasn’t over. And Diane was right there in front of me—not young, but a lot younger than I was, and pretty, and emotionally adrift. No kids, abandoned by her jerk of an ex-husband. I could feel the dark energy pouring out of her, a familiar desperation. We teamed up like Bonnie and Clyde, and went on our little crime spree.

At least we didn’t kill anyone.

Happy people don’t do what we did. They don’t fuck in the Principal’s office in the middle of the day, with a bunch of co-workers on the other side of the door. They don’t sneak off to the parking lot during halftime. She threw pebbles at my window one night at two in the morning, and I snuck downstairs and let her into the garage. She knelt down on the cold cement floor and gave me the best blowjob of my life, my wife asleep in our bed, my daughter home from college.

I don’t know what would’ve happened if Alice hadn’t gotten sick. There’s a very good chance that Diane and I would’ve been caught; I could’ve lost my job, lost my family, ended my career in shame. Maybe Diane and I would’ve tried to make a go of it, to be a real couple in the real world instead of a pair of outlaws. Who knows. Maybe it would’ve worked.

It’s all moot. You can’t have an affair while your wife—the mother of your children—is dying. I mean, some guys can—Newt Gingrich did, if I remember correctly—but not me. And anyway, there was no point anymore. I had all the drama and adventure anyone needed, right in my own house. The real thing, life and death, sickness and health. Fucking your secretary is nothing compared to that.

Diane understood. She was a grown-up and a good person. The only thing that surprised me was that she stuck around at the main office. I thought she might give her notice, because it was awkward and painful for both of us, having to work together after everything we’d been through, to turn off those other feelings. I knew it was unfair, my assumption that she was the one who should leave, but it made sense: there were tons of jobs for secretaries and administrative assistants out there, many of which paid a lot more than she was making at the high school, and very few openings for Principals, especially for a man my age. But she was stubborn; she stayed right where she was—Front Desk Diane to the bitter end—and all the life went out of her. That was my fault, at least partly—I couldn’t deny it—but there was nothing I could do to make it better, except leave her alone as much as possible.

Well, she’d finally outlasted me. In a few months, I’d be gone, and she’d be working for Tracy Flick, and I hoped that would be a comfort to her.



* * *



Right after Lost Meadow Village, I got on the Parkway and headed north to complete my journey. It was a humbling experience, merging the RV onto the highway, stomping on the gas pedal, waiting for a power surge that never arrived as everyone else zoomed past like I was standing still. It felt like the perfect metaphor for getting old and falling by the wayside.

I took the Grover exit and headed through the quaint downtown, feeling a familiar urgency in the region of my bladder. It was often like that, a race to get home and rush into the bathroom, one more indignity of advancing age. Of course, I could’ve stopped and availed myself of the pristine toilet on the RV, but I hated the idea of sullying it for the first time when I was only a few minutes from home.

I’d just passed the movie theater when an unmarked police car appeared in my rearview with exquisitely bad timing and flashed its lights. Despite my rising sense of alarm, I was able to pull over without too much trouble, though I did scrape my right front hubcap against the curb.

The cop was in plain clothes, a short, squat guy who moved with an unhurried swagger, leading with a belly other men might have tried to conceal. When I asked what I’d done wrong, he removed his sunglasses and grinned.