Chapter Two - Enter Gomer

Steve’s hint at legitimacy came as a result of his professional exploits. Though not as accomplished as Professor Kasner, he actually had a job he liked, and had received some degree of personal success as a result. His area of interest and success was a touch eccentric. He suspected hers was too, although he knew that she could explain, and indeed sell her own products a bit (a bit?) better than he. When she spoke, she could be guaranteed that the cream of the crop would listen. From time to time, that was true of Steve, too.
Steve had an office, at the junior college, which he shared with Dr. Griff Herring, instructor of liberal arts. Dr. Herring had a big desk, terrifically abstract books on his shelves, and a PhD. Each one of those facts lent Steve to only frustration, as he was competing with Herring in his own mind. In his earliest years at the college, Steve looked at Herring with reverence befitting a popstar; Herring looked at Steve as one of many. Steve was the fly; Herring was the horse’s tail. Steve gave up on Herring after their second faculty luncheon together when Herring suggested Steve “didn’t have the glands” to teach at Gomer. At that point, he began to keep to himself at work, seeing Dr. Herring as just someone to deal with. Herring saw Steve as something between a paperweight and an ornament, something he- Herring- might hang on the wall of his office were he to teach at Harvard. Of course, Herring couldn’t be less pleased to share an office with Steve; but his own ego told himself he was the senior partner, and in turn, he had convinced himself to care less if Steve were even there. Herring was, in truth, miserable, and hated Gomer nearly as much as he hated Steve. He did envy Steve’s fluency with and care for his chosen field, and for young people. But Steve would never know that[1].
In spite of such difficulties in the 9 to 5, Steve identified good work to do, and no personal level of animosity could shatter that Midwestern work ethic that Steve would attempt to pass on to his kids. Could Calvin Coolidge become palatable to 19 year olds? Indeed. Would there be the chance, that Gomer’s future workforce would remember the details of Einstein, Oppenheimer and Roosevelt, and in fact, the creation of the modern western world, in which they themselves fit so comfortably? Could they be shown that without the Cold War, there would be no internet, no iPod, no….cellular phone? Heck yes. And having such a point of reference, Steve would recruit his students into a study of the past.
To be sure, Steve was not the ball of unbridled energy he saw himself as. But all things considered, life was fine. Precisely fine. He went and got a Master’s Degree so he could sit, drink coffee, and read the paper each day while playing Henry Kissinger in the library of UNO (Northern Ohio), where he went to college. He returned to Gomer in fact to take a job teaching High School. That had been his fallback plan in case he couldn’t find work at the State Department. They weren’t hiring. He fell back.
The high school he had first worked at in Gomer shut down; several more turned him down (although Gomer High had invited him to Career Day on the strength of his resume since their initial rejection of his skillset), and Steve assumed that success was only one more job interview away. Who wanted a nice, well-paying job anyway? No, he was a boxer. He’d punched a few, and had been punched - maybe even staggered around a bit, but eventually – one day – those beatings would pay off.
To the outside observer, such dreams are meant to be crushed, to many in Steve’s circle, his aloofness to all things sensible bordered on nothing more than an unreasonable coping tactic. But there were a few behind the curtains, directing traffic. Steve’s plans were legitimate. Would he truly understand that, he would know that such a future depended, in no small measure, upon Dr. Brian Porto.
Porto, as most people simply called him, sat on the board of directors at the local Catholic school, where Steve had also been shot down upon an interview. The vote to hire Steve was 1-9, decidedly not in his favor. Unbeknownst to Steve, Porto kept his eyes on this gentleman’s credentials and demeanor. From time to time, Porto would bump into Steve in the library or at the coffee shop, and would inquire as to what Steve’s plans were, what he was reading, and where he planned to end up. It was never clear to Steve that Porto might have been watching out for him. After several months of regular visits, Porto called Steve with a bit of good news.
“Steve, this is Brian Porto….I want to see you in my office at GCC and you should bring a resume.”
Wow!
Porto rewrote Steve’s resume, shepherded him through a series of introductions with the Board of Directors, and threw him nothing but softballs during his interview. And then Porto made a job offer.
“Visiting Associate Instructor Samuels sounds mighty fine” thought Steve. “And the salary is amazing.”
Porto was quietly very pleased to see Steve come to Gomer Community College, because, if he was nothing else, Samuels was curious- he liked to know. Porto felt that it would be good for the college to have someone like that on staff. Steve’s first year at the college was terrific. He seemed to be rather animated, he was the only faculty member to wear three-piece suits each day to work, he made his students call him “Professor” and he asked them to stand when they were called upon to answer questions. Steve was doing this for two reasons; one, it was good for the kids to be in a heavy environment, and also that he himself enjoyed being able to see himself as the moderator of that heavy environment.
Porto used to say,
“Enjoy this, Steve. One day you will be department head[2].”
Porto looked at Steve as sort of a surrogate son; Porto’s own son had not any interest at all in worldly matters. Instead, he went into business, and became very successful. By 30, Porto Jr. was making more than he would ever need; by 35, he was Vice-President for Transportation at a cereal company and was seriously considering starting his own firm. Gomer was, to Porto Jr., simply one more place he was obliged to think of when sending Christmas cards, to make sure his future patrons would see his name in print, along with the picture of him, his wife and their “newborn”, a black Labrador named Bubby. He came back twice a year, and each time Porto would bring him into the fold of the Gomer Historian, and Porto Jr. never once bit.
This of course disappointed Porto. He was a fully developed intellectual, with a breadth of experience found typically only in the abstract. He was real leader in Ohio, quietly influential, and unafraid to call in a favor when the need be. Porto lived in a world that one would not necessarily always understand. As a very young man in 1963, Porto had been in South VietNam, as a civilian[3] researching water desalination for the United States Information Agency. An injury sustained in a fall insured that he would not return to Southeast Asia in uniform. Porto left government service when that country became too dangerous for an American still re-learning how to walk. Never one to let idle time congregate, Porto used the next five years to earn a PhD in the field of electrical engineering, and to meet and marry his wife Régine[4]. He arrived in Ohio in 1974, to work on a restructuring of Ohio’s Civil Defense Warning System and never looked back. After a successful career[5] , he and Régine retired to their farm outside of Gomer. Porto was a ‘bricks and mortar’ sort of person, but years of world travel had made him a touch weary. Upon his triumphant return to Gomer, certain well-placed colleagues created and then awarded him with the (part time, indeed honorary) position as “Deputy Chancellor, Gomer Community College[6].” Porto threw himself into his “retirement”. Everyone knew – he’d die with his boots on – that was his way. But he told people he was retired, and he invited everyone to play along with his ruse.
Porto would continue to keep an eye on world events, and that meant he would – a couple times a year - venture outside his beloved Ohio. From time to time, his former company, of which he was now “Chairman Emeritus” would need his expertise, and he would volunteer. He saw it as a way to give back to a world that had been good to him. Although quite active, he in fact enjoyed the slower pace of retirement –rarely a midnight call from overseas, even less likely a flamboyant message from this or that official with an urgent “infrastructure event.” Now he could pick and choose which jobs to take. He did so with gusto, and with personal discretion. Such discretion even once enabled him to take Régine on a surprise tour of her ancestral home of Belgium[7] as a ‘late’ anniversary present, endearing his ways to her even more.
Porto had a generosity of spirit, and he took every effort to extend that to the people he saw and worked with. It was also immediately noticeable that his still waters ran quite deep, and as a result, few challenged him when he spoke. He did, from time to time, adopt certain people as “apprentices.” Had others done so, such presumption would be too much to handle. But everyone liked him and he wore his credentials well.
This character lent Steve a certain comfort, then. Steve had initially been scared by Porto; he had no equals other than Régine, and in spite of Porto’s own gentle nature, he could not hide his own pronounced personality and accomplishments. He was also persistent and welcoming. Once Steve realized that Porto had different expectations, beginning with the want to be able to talk about issues great and small, Steve understood where he fit in, right there, in Porto’s personal space. He wasn’t sure what Porto’s methods were. They would of course discuss informally the issues of the day, as peers might. But it was also just as common that as a conversation ended, Porto would assign Steve a duty for ‘next time.’ The first time such an assignment occurred, Porto – cleverly – formed his wishes in the nature of a question that he himself hadn’t been able to answer[8]. Of course, after a few more such ‘assignments’, Steve realized that Porto’s diplomacy was at work – far be it from an intellect such as Porto’s to truly be naïve. Steve kept up his side of the bargain – creating a charming level of obscure analyses as ‘homework’ for the regular coffee breaks that he and Porto would share. About once every six weeks, Porto would send Steve a packet in the mail including both his original notes, but also Porto’s responses and rebuttals. Steve was pleased. Could it be, that this work of his own might actually be helping Porto, who, even in retirement, cast quite a shadow? To an outside observer, there might have been the appearance of Porto taking advantage of Steve’s willingness to work for free. Steve thought that precisely once. He then came to see his efforts as the ‘price of admission’, for Porto clearly counted on him, and Steve walked away smarter. Or, at least, less bored.
Porto understood Steve’s desire to get out of Herring’s aura, indeed, and his equally strong wishes to get away from the confines of certain prescribed banalities at the College. And if Steve Samuels was in Porto’s halo, his posse, by definition, then Porto could confirm his own sphere of influence. So the ‘deal’ was good for both. Steve had even come to see himself as someone resembling a younger Porto, an inheritor of the methods, although he would never mention that to anyone.
Apart from his work with Porto, Steve was sometimes bored at Gomer. He suspected, as did all his colleagues, that were he to end up at UNO, he’d be bored there, and if he were at Georgetown or Oxford, that too, would become dull for him. There were times when Steve felt that he would know excitement only in theory, and the lifeline to any sort of perpetual enjoyment was solely the chance to tell these Worldly Stories. He really was in it for himself in so many regards; once done reading the newspapers, he would find some anecdote in an old book that he liked, and then he would master it in front of the 19 year olds who thought he was making it all up as he went. As cynical as this approach was, Steve indeed liked certain parts of his job; he enjoyed the freedom of very little supervision. Dr. Herring would come and go – off playing Henry Kissinger in the library of Gomer Community College, or perhaps to the local tavern. At those times Steve would be able to forget the tubby old Doc was ever there. Freedom.
Dr. Herring carried himself with the subtlety of a truck full of burning garbage. Steve often felt that if Doc. H were the only person he knew, the days would be too painful to bear. Herring was a profane man; Steve could keep up with the best in that field, too, but Herring gave him only an indifference to his –Steve’s- own normal air of underprivileged yet genuine superiority. Steve didn’t like placing his own ego at the mercy of someone he truly did consider beneath the rug and a really terrible person. He had taken the secondary role in their office and in their duties, and he did so willingly – anything to shut that fat fascist up. As one could imagine, they were not close. Things deteriorated markedly when Steve suggested out loud that Herring should catheterize his own mouth, immediately whisking away anything coming out of it, so no one would be punished by that voice again.
Steve did, however, find genuine mental solace, by working on his gems in his off time - “Friend or Foe: Carnagie in Your Life” and “The Real Ernest Hemingway.[9]” In such “off” time, Steve felt he would, at some point, fall into the agency of academia for its own sake. He would get that PhD. He would send the painfully obese, swarthy Doc. Herring postcards from Vienna and Rome, just to remind him that there was a great and mighty world outside of such cynical confines. Oh yes. In spite of a crass and cruel, diminutive and wretched communion with Griff Herring, Steve would make the first move. He’d start with a postcard.
Griffles; so sorry you couldn’t make with us this time. The scholarship is all you might imagine it is. Perhaps one day you will even make it over here. When I am back at UNO (Northern Ohio), I’ll come by our old office in Gomer and show you the photos. Don’t you have a book about Italy on your shelf? Ciao Signor Doctor. Steven and Carmela

Yes, then he would live. But first, he needed to produce.
He already had one foot in the door; he was working (quietly) on talking himself up at the world’s colleges. He felt, as an academic himself, that there would indeed be room at one of Europe’s third-tier institutions for an American of his skills. The fact that he had been published - one time, during his seventh year of college (business school[10]) – gave him a certain confidence, and, he felt, an advantage over his peers at Gomer. Of course, his work was widely panned. But it was in print, and Steve had been courting faculty in all parts of the country; reminding them that Gomer Alumni were now competitive.
But that would be the future, if it were anything. Steve was a professional teacher, and his plans, admirable as they may be, would not distract them from his charge, his inner fire, that was being in front of ten or twelve young people, and serving as their bridge to the great thoughts of human experience.

"Dr. Porto?"
"Yes, Steve- come on in."
"You wanted to see me?"
"Actually, I do. It seems that there are a few problems that I think we can get worked out here today".

Steve was then told that certain students had complained, as had that old wet rag Herring. He was asking the tough questions. He had made a few students uncomfortable in class, even with the quite acceptable grade every student received. In truth, the students were right. They had come to Gomer for the chance to horse around, to write a few papers, and to move on. Some of them were not always satisfied with Steve. His demeanor and his ability to “connect” was quite alive, but perhaps he fell into that, as his own easy way out. He was indeed asking the tough questions, questions, however, that would never, could never, pertain to the furthering of these kids’ tender minds. In commerce, in academia, in industry, Steve was, some would say, taking time from the students they would never get back. In truth, Steve wanted to work for free. He saw himself as the inheritor of the Old Order in the grand British colleges. As Steve spoke to his students, he would see them in shirtsleeves and khaki pants, all groomed neatly, while he sat at the edge of his walnut desk, puffing cherry Cavendish, reminding them of a world deep.
They saw him in a different manner, but were indeed entertained, and to some degree, most of the students would have preferred an hour in Samuels’ class than in the others. Herring was not liked, but he was the only Humanities instructor at Gomer, so everyone had to take him. It was rumored among the students that Samuels and Herring could not stand each other. From time to time, Steve would let himself be goaded into a defense of Humanities per se, in tacit opposition to Herring’s methods relative to the genre, but more true, to the students. Samuels gave up on his office mate when one of his students took issue with an assertion of Herring’s, after which he reduced her to tears, suggesting she should go back to the restaurant she worked at, the restaurant whose employ she left in order to come to Gomer. From then on, Steve would quietly and informally meet with groups of Herring’s students, to show them how write qualified exams for Herring, to ensure they would pass his course, and remove themselves from his circle. No one would doubt Steve’s sense of duty to those students, even if his senses standing alone were sometimes inconsistent.

“C.S. Lewis has nothing on us here today; for whom do we speak now? Could we speak for those who’ve lost? Or for those whom we have lost? For I believe, that God wants us to suffer, that so we may know each side of the human condition. For it is through suffering that we understand each other and the fragile relationship of the Creator to man, and the more fragile yet relationship of man to his Eden.”
“Mr. Samuels?”
“Yes, Keith?”
“What the hell are you talking about?.”
“Sorry, Keith.”

As much as he cared for those fine people, he also cared for his future, and it was hard, if not impossible to avoid seeing that there might be a rough future at Gomer; where so many other teachers saw themselves as Notaries and rubber-stampers, confirming only that kids came to class and paid their bills and congregated next to the corporate-sponsored televisions and soda machines in the hallways. From time to time, he may have been a poor teacher, but he was a deep thinker. He knew it. Porto knew it[11]. There were duties he had, independent of any natural or learned skills; duties? Yes. To the genre. To Andrew Jackson and Robert Taft and Daniel Webster, and to Socrates, to himself, and to TR – Theodore Roosevelt. He would not be distracted by anything.
Except, to be sure, Career Day.





[1] Steve knew he had a way with people, just not in this environment, he thought.
[2] Dr. Herring will in fact be the department head.
[3] allegedly
[4] The couple met when he spent three weeks in Montreal, during a ‘grand tour’ in the British tradition. She caught his eye at a restaurant while singing Joni Mitchell songs in French to a group of her friends. He interrupted with a Bob Dylan verse in Latin. Three months later, they were married.
[5] His business card read “Infrastructure Developer.” That position took him to East Germany after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Former Soviet Union, back to Viet Nam, and to most US military facilities across the globe. He saw himself as a “people mover” more than anything else.
[6] Included in the package was an office, an administrative assistant, a token salary of one dollar per year and an extremely broad, self-defined set of duties. A very good fit.
[7] Thanks to a problem with the control tower at an airstrip used to land the Prime Minister’s plane. Porto’s company – naturally – had been retained to fix it quickly, discreetly, and pro bono so as not to alert the Belgian taxpayer of ‘foreign influence’ over high-level internal affairs. As a thank-you, the Prime Minster treated Régine and Porto to a personal tour of the Royal Belgian Institute of Natural Sciences, fulfilling a life’s dream of hers.
[8] “Steve…I don’t fully understand the precise level of direction Franklin Roosevelt kept over Nelson Rockefeller during the Inter-American Affairs era…can you help me out with a one-pager?”
[9] It is extremely unlikely that these pieces will ever see the light of day.
[10] Remember, “Fiduciary Duties of Shareholders of Closely Held Corporations”? That’s right- he was counting on that to open the door not only Jenna, but to real, scholarly work itself.
[11] Oh, it’d be cool, Steve thought, if Jenna Kasner knew that, too.