Road To Nowhere: Manfred Schmidt, #3

By Karl G. Trautman

Revisit the 1980s!

 

Book 3 of the Manfred Schmidt Series

 

Manny's still got something to prove.

Follow our hero as he:

• Returns to Boston for graduate school
• Tests personal and legal boundaries
• Begins an on-again and off-again romance
• Travels out West once more for adventure
• Moves to politically act
• Pursues a doctorate in fits and starts

Yet  Jimmy Carter's loss in the 1980 presidential election still haunts him. 

 

Literary Fiction  

Flawed Hero Press

319 pages 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flawed Hero Press
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223916239

Karl G. Trautman

Karl G. Trautman is the author of the Manfred Schmidt series of fiction books. The first three volumes, Deacon Blues, Sweet Dreams Are Made of This and Road To Nowhere have been published. He is also the editor of the non-fiction book, The New Populist Reader and the author of the non-fiction book, The Underdog in American Politics The Democratic Party and Liberal Values. He received his doctorate in political science from The University of Hawaii and has taught in Denmark and Japan as a Fulbright Visiting Lecturer. He has been a college teacher in Michigan and Kansas and been a research assistant for Meet The Press. He currently teaches in the Public Service and Social Sciences Department at Central Maine Community College.

Book preview

-1-

It was a crisp, early fall day as I strode toward Meserve Hall. That was where the political science department was located at Northeastern. As I spotted what looked to be the front door, I noticed a coffee cart parked on the street in front of the building. There were a few people standing in line, casually waiting to buy a morning intake of caffeine. Since it was almost nine-thirty, I wondered if it was their first cup of the day, or if they had already had a few. Even though I had gulped down two cups before eight, having another one right now would have felt great.

I was extremely tired because I hadn’t slept the night before. I kept thinking about what my graduate career would be like. Today was the day that the teaching assistants would meet the professors they would be working for. I would be helping Dr. Bruno, and the only thing I knew about him was that his specialty was American politics. Just like me.

The meeting with Bruno started in five minutes, and I didn’t want to be late. So I hurried past the truck and entered the building. Briskly climbing up the stairs to the second floor, I pulled open the door to the second floor and walked past the individual offices of the department toward the large room at the end of the hallway. That was the space where the lowly TAs were housed. I discovered that last week during orientation. When I arrived, there was a grinning, short Cuban guy sitting at a desk.

Good morning, Manny.

Hey, Ramon. When do you meet with your prof?

Not until ten. I’d thought I’d get here a little early and chill.

My meeting is... I looked down at my watch and felt a rush of anxiety. Well, just about now.

Quickly walking over to the far left hand corner of the room, I took off my backpack and tossed it on my desk.

Ramon quipped, Good luck.

Ramon was one of the new TAs in the department. His concentration was international relations. I had met him briefly at the big university orientation session last week. He seemed nice, but also a little intense.

I hurried out the door and was soon standing in front of Dr. Bruno’s office. The door was undecorated except for a piece of white paper taped squarely in the center. Photos of an American flag and a hundred-dollar bill were in the upper portion of the space while below them was a quote in large letters. It read: The flaw in the pluralist heaven is that the heavenly chorus sings with a strong upper-class accent. ~E.E. Schattschneider. My eyes widened for a second, amazed at how bold the message was.

The door was ajar, and I could see him reading at his desk. I wasn’t sure if I should knock, just stand there and wait until he saw me, or announce my presence. As I was about to speak, he noticed me.

You must be Manfred Schmidt.

Yeah, that’s me.

Well, come on in and sit down.

Thanks, Dr. Bruno.

The office was just what I imagined a typical professor’s office would be like. Two tall bookshelves surrounded a desk strewn with pens, pencils, scattered pieces of paper, two coffee cups, and a pipe.

I scanned for a place to sit and couldn’t see any. Then I noticed a stack of books to the side of one of the bookshelves. Looking down to the floor, I realized they were sitting on top of a chair.

Oh, sorry, I kind of use the chairs for books that I’m working with. I’ll—

Don’t worry, I can—

Embarrassed, he said, Just put ’em on the floor. I need to shelve them anyway.

I piled them on the floor and sat down.

He looked me in the eyes and said, "First of all, none of this Dr. Bruno shit. I’m John." Bruno looked to be in his mid-thirties and was short and stocky. He looked kind of Italian, but not too much so. He dove right in with what he expected from me.

So I was a TA too. When I was at Pitt. Helluva title, huh? After my first semester, we thought TA meant Toiler Asswipe, with all the stuff the profs made us do. He let out a short, nervous laugh that sounded slightly sinister.

I didn’t know whether to chuckle or cringe.

But seriously, Manny, that’s not us here. Besides, I was getting a PhD, and this is a master’s program.

He then reached for a pipe, and as he was about to put it in his mouth, he grumbled, Damn, I forgot. Can’t smoke in here. After placing it back on the table, he continued.

Now, here’s how it works. I’ll lecture twice a week to the class, and you’ll run a discussion section every Friday with some of them. Basically, go over some of the main points and answer their questions. Oh, yeah, and try and get a discussion going. Relating current events to the concepts usually works. Which shouldn’t be too hard since it’s an election year.

And I go to all your lectures, right? Take notes on what you said?

He let out another somewhat sinister laugh.

Well, well, how is it possible that you’ve already been trained? He quickly turned serious. My God, there’s no need for that. I’ll have the department secretary make copies of my outlines, and you can go from there. As long as you read the textbook, you should be fine. It’s a pretty standard one by Wilson. Now, if you want to go to an occasional lecture of mine, sure, knock yourself out. But I realize you’ll be busy with your grad classes.

I said, Well, that sounds manageable.

Actually, it can be kind of fun. If you get a few good students who want to wrestle with the ideas.

The calmness I was portraying to Bruno didn’t match the eagerness I felt inside. The mature twenty-four-year-old was just a mask; in truth I was sixteen again, longing to reveal my brilliance to the world. I imagined myself passionately explaining how the separation of powers worked and why it was so vital to American democracy. An avalanche of ideas came over me. I thought about Reagan and Central America. The congressional resistance to his warmongering was a perfect example of the tension in our system. Then there was federalism. How many goddamned rights did states really have? Or should they have?

Dr. Bruno interrupted my self-absorption. Oh, yeah, one other thing you have to do. Grade. That will be the most time-consuming. They’ll be three tests, with true-false, short answer, and essays. The short answers and obviously the essays will take a little time. But you’ll eventually get it down.

Grading didn’t faze me. I knew that’s why I’d been hired; to do the grunt work. It would be the price I paid for a free degree. It was easily worth it.

So you’re from New Hampshire, right?

No. I just went to school there. I grew up around DC.

I’m from Pittsburgh. Great town, but it’s fallen on tough times.

That makes sense, I thought. He kind of looks like he would be from Pittsburgh. He sort of reminded me of a Pittsburgh Steeler lineman, except shorter.

"It must have been cool growing up in DC. Did you read the Post?"

Sure. I love their in-depth stories on politics. However, the best way to read it is from at least a hundred miles away.

Why’s that?

It’s better being a little far away from the action. You can get a more objective view of what’s going on. It’s too easy to get caught up in all the political tactics and details and miss the big picture.

Which is?

What they are trying to accomplish, issues and policies. Substance.

Bruno grinned. I imagined it was a knowing grin; one that acknowledged my insight about the importance to trying to figure out the essence of political fights. It was like, This kid gets it.

In reality, the grin could just have easily been condescending, a facial expression that safely hid his reaction to my naïveté. Maybe it was really, Wow, what he doesn’t know.

What are you taking this quarter?

Two courses; one is the seminar in American Government with Johnson.

Yeah, that’s good. He’s the chair of the department and an expert on the presidency. You’ll learn a lot. What’s the other?

Ancient and Medieval Political Thought with Bailey.

I never touched political theory. Greek and Roman philosophers just wasn’t my thing. But Bailey knows his stuff.

Well, welcome to the department, Manny. I gotta get back to some reading. Next week we’ll set up a regular time to meet. But in the meantime, feel free to poke your head in and ask questions. Unfortunately, I’m here a lot.

Thanks.

And Manny, if you see the door open, just come on in, you don’t have to knock.

As I was leaving, that quote on the door popped up in my mind. I gotta ask you about that quote on your door. Who’s E.E. Schattschneider?

He suddenly got animated. Oh young man, I’d thought you’d never ask. He’s a political scientist who studies parties and organizations. Some of his insights are brilliant, gets you really thinking about democracy, at least how we practice it here in America.

My eyes lit up. I wanted to know more.

I also wondered what his politics were. With that quote and those photos, he had to be a liberal. But I immediately tried to block my mind from speculating about his ideology. After all, I was in grad school to learn.

Don’t worry, when you take a course from me, you’ll get plenty of Schattschneider.

Stepping back into the TA room, I saw that Ramon had been joined by two other TAs who sat at desks on the opposite sides of the room. One was a tall blonde, who kind of looked like a geeky Norwegian. The other was a plain-looking, medium build guy with short brown hair. They hadn’t been at last week’s orientation.

The blonde shyly waved her hand, Hi, you must be Manny.

Yeah, that’s me.

I’m Amy, and I’m from Duluth. That’s in Minnesota. I’m in the MPA program and am also Bruno’s TA. Nice to meet you.

I looked across the room.

Well, I guess I’m next. I’m Sean. From Springfield. Just down the Mass Pike a bit. So I guess you could kind of call me a local. He let out a nervous chuckle. I’m in the MA program and am, yep, another one with Bruno.

Bruno’s academic pen was now complete.

That left Ramon.

I looked over at him.

With a frown, he said, What are you looking at me for? You met me last week.

I couldn’t tell whether he was angry or just making a joke.

He then looked over at Amy and Sean and haughtily said, I actually showed up at the orientation. But let me make a proper introduction.

He stood up from his desk, pulled back his chin and dramatically addressed all of us:

I am Ramon Fernandez and I’m Professor Sullivan’s TA for Intro to IR. And if you have not already guessed, I am Cuban. A proud son of Havana who stands for the freedom of my long-suffering people. Viva Alpha 66!

There was silence. I didn’t know what to think. What the hell was Alpha 66?

All of a sudden Sean broke out in song, Babalu! Babalu!

Amy and I started to giggle.

Amy innocently looked over at Sean, "That’s Ricky Ricardo, right? From I Love Lucy?"

The one and only. I loved watching that show when I was a kid.

My eyes turned to Ramon, and he wasn’t smiling.

Sean looked over at Ramon and said, No offense, I’m just joking around.

Oh that’s OK. He was just an entertainer. But you know Lucy was a communist.

Amy’s eyes opened wide. What? I never knew that.

Oh yeah, she admitted it to Congress back in the fifties.

Sean burst out, Lucy you got some splaining to do!

I cracked up. However, in the middle of my chuckling, I suddenly felt guilty, or afraid. Maybe a little of both. I didn’t know how Ramon would take this second joke from Sean. I felt something unsettling about him.

Looking around the room, I saw Sean shamelessly laughing at his own joke and Amy’s face turning red.

Ramon just sat there tight-lipped. His beady eyes were looking straight at Sean. He didn’t seem threatening, just resolute.

All of a sudden, Ramon got up and declared, Well, time for my meeting with Sullivan.

I asked, Have you ever met her before?

No, I don’t know anything about her. They just assigned me to her because she has the largest Intro to IR class. I hope she’s not some commie who ‘sympathizes’ with the struggles of the people in Latin America.

Now I felt really uncomfortable. Was he some kind of fascist? I thought about Reagan’s policies toward Central America. Ramon must be a big fan of Ronnie, with his support for the Contras in Nicaragua. I suspected he was all in for the death squads in El Salvador and Guatemala. Anything was justified to stop change in our hemisphere.

I was intrigued about Professor Sullivan. International Relations fascinated me. I yearned to learn more about how nations politically related to each other. Diplomacy, militaries, alliances, spying, treaties were all part of national power. I wondered how they affected national identities.

After Ramon left, I felt a sense of relief.

Sean said, Well, I think we all know where Ramon stands on foreign policy. But since we are all Americanists, do you think Mondale stands a chance against Ronnie?

He looked over at me.

God, I hope so, I said. The world’s a much more dangerous place now with him in office.

"Oh, I agree with that. The guy’s a warmonger. But can Mondale beat him?"

In my gut, I knew he couldn’t. Whatever slim chance he had, he had thrown it away when he said he was raising taxes at the Democratic Convention.

Yet I didn’t say that out loud. If I did, where did the conversation go from there? Into a post mortem for a campaign that had six weeks to go?

So I answered like a politician and ignored his question. "Well, he can. But it’s gonna be really hard. Somehow, he’s going to have to change what people are talking about. But the story now seems to be that Reagan brought the country back from despair; we’re standing tall again."

Sean looked at me and sardonically said, Manny, didn’t you know?

As he paused, Amy looked intently in his eyes.

I sensed a joke to come.

It’s Morning Again in America.

I chuckled. Yeah, right. For some, it’s still pretty dark.

Amy looked puzzled. I don’t understand.

Morning in America? That’s one of Reagan’s TV ads. Haven’t you seen it?

No. I actually don’t watch much TV.

I presume television has come to Duluth, right?

Amy again turned red. Actually, I haven’t lived in Duluth since—

Amy, I’m just kidding. I love to joke around, as you might have noticed.

Oh, yeah, right.

When I got tired of the banter, I decided to go to the bookstore and get my textbooks for the quarter. Soon I was walking to my apartment, about to take the shortcut home through the Fens. As I was about to cross Fenway Street, I spotted a newspaper machine on the other side. Reading today’s Boston Globe over lunch at my apartment sounded perfect to me. Once the way was clear, I hustled across the street and put a quarter in the machine. The headline was about Reagan’s reaction to the recent bombing near Beirut of the US Embassy annex. I turned the paper over and saw the headline: Mondale targets the ‘weak’ Democrats. Well, you can’t just target them, I thought. You need to win them. Besides, isn’t this a little late in the game? I shook my head in disgust.

After putting the paper in my backpack, I started to amble through the Fens. Some of the leaves on the trees had just begun to turn. Autumn had always given me so much hope. It felt like the beginning—of discovering new opportunities, meeting new people and most importantly, learning. That’s why I liked the beginning of school; it was always a fresh opportunity for stimulation.

I thought about my conversation with Sean and shook my head as I walked. Such fucking idiots, I thought. Hart had seen Mondale’s vulnerability last year. He knew this would happen. So did I.

How could I be objective leading discussions about American politics? What I really wanted to do was to tell those impressionable young minds the truth, that Reagan was bullshit. He lied about balancing the budget, was going to get us into a nuclear war with the Russians and was on the wrong side of history in Central America.

But I knew I couldn’t. Instead, I had to explain institutions and processes.

Then I worried about how I would handle the section on campaigns. Should I pretend to the students that Mondale still had a chance? I knew I had to. It wasn’t my job to kill their hopes.

-2-

I loved everything about my graduate career. Leading the discussions for Bruno’s class was thrilling. We talked about American political ideals, Congress, and freedom of the press. It was a month into the quarter, and I still couldn’t believe that undergraduates were looking to me for knowledge. Getting paid to explain American democracy to fresh eighteen-year-olds was exhilarating. I enjoyed looking for eagerness and curiosity, and once detected, pouncing on its incipiency and seeing my results. It gave me a sense of power and a rush throughout my body. My students were the tinder, and I was the magnifying glass.

When I ignited a discussion, I felt like I was playing the role of a political analyst on television. Part intellectual, part entertainer, I was the young provocateur to my students. Emotionally, I was Phil Donahue, and intellectually, I was Dan Rather. Or at least that’s how subconsciously I wanted to come across.

Raising my voice, pausing for effect, walking around the room, and exaggerating outrage were all part of my job description. What was fantastic was that I was allowed to write it for myself. I relished the freedom to release my creativity and passion as the quadrennial verdict of American democracy approached.

How cool was that?

Sure Reagan was going to win. Even though he did terrible in the first debate, he was still twelve points ahead of Mondale. The election was less than three weeks away. Unless the Gipper had a heart attack on stage at the debate Sunday night in Kansas City, he would be reelected.

Yet there were so many other topics that fascinated me, like the CIA and Nicaragua, the Pentagon budget and Mideast policy. In particular, I was drawn to the vicious conflict over the Contras. I felt that was where the raw exercise of executive power was being met by the direct confrontation of the legislative branch. It was the president versus Congress. Just like Watergate.

Even though I was only a TA, I felt somewhat professional because I had authority over my students. That’s what grading did. Since I wasn’t much older than them, the emotional distance I was expected to maintain felt somewhat artificial for me. One student in particular made that detachment especially difficult.

Her name was Charlotte. She was a cute, working-class girl from East Boston and a sponge for ideas. She wasn’t a knockout but was enthusiastic. Whenever I started to explain concepts, her eyes always seemed to be glued to mine, absorbing every word I proclaimed. She was the only student in the discussion section who behaved that way.

Afterward, she usually stayed around for a few minutes and probed me for more depth on what I had brought up. I felt honored and excited when this happened. After a few minutes when we had exhausted the topic, I sensed that she didn’t want to leave. That’s when I didn’t know what to do.

I had an impulse to move our conversation into a playful banter, cautiously testing the outer boundaries of a romantic attraction. Progressing with her in that way felt natural.

What harm could come if I tried? If she didn’t want to move our conversation to a different level, I would have detected that immediately. Then, as smoothly as possible, I could refocus the conversation quickly back to the class. It would have been awkward, but only briefly.

Yet I always held back.

Even though she seemed liked easy prey to me, a potential relationship seemed much too stereotypical to act on. I would play the role of the older intellectual, she the enthralled undergraduate. Yet that was too temporary and maybe even too exploitative for me to actually do. Keeping that image only in my mind was safer.

The tension between my loins and my career was something I had feared would come up at some point in my life. Since I had a smidgen of power now, that time had come.

I desperately wanted to be taken seriously as an academic. I didn’t want to let anything get in the way of getting a position where I would be recognized for my mind. Any hint of favoritism could stain my intellectual integrity, and that would be devastating.

Of course the only way that a charge of favoritism could ever surface would be from someone within the university. It would have to come from another student, or maybe an administrator or a professor. If that happened, it would make my life much too complicated.

So I never chanced it. Charlotte would remain just another student to me.

Yet I couldn’t deny the needs of my body. I was aching for a girlfriend. So my focus shifted elsewhere.

Something more long-lasting was what I was after. That meant someone more interesting, older, like a graduate student. There was an intriguing one I had met at the orientation session back in September. Her name was Liz, and she was getting her masters in English. I had been thinking about her for a few weeks.

When we first met, we’d talked for a few minutes and exchanged brief biographical details about each other. She was from Maine, had long red hair, and liked literature, particularly eighteenth-century English novels. I had stopped by to see her in the English Department a few times, and we’d had a few safe conversations over coffee. She liked ideas, which attracted me to her. She did seem a little reserved though. However, her reticence only sparked my desire to find out why she seemed so reluctant to open up.

I also sensed a slight hint of sadness that triggered me to want to make her happy. The fact that she was tall, thin, and attractive was not an insignificant factor in my pursuit of her. The end result of a successful breaking of her shell could very well be a deep penetration, of the most personal and pleasurable kind. Deep down I knew that, in some ways, it really was that simple. At least for me. After a few excuses as to why she was busy, she agreed to go out with me on Saturday, October 20th.

•

We met at the Museum of Fine Arts at ten o’clock. I thought that was a safe venue to start our date. I could feel the hopefulness in my body when I spotted her standing on the front steps.

As I walked through the museum with her by my side, I tried to invent an interest in the paintings we were seeing. As we were strolling through the Japanese collection, my eyes gazed at a painting that depicted a tiger as it stood near the edge of a cliff. I homed in on its face, wanting to discover the animal’s emotion. Yet there was nothing, only a stationary, expressionless stance.

I felt disappointed. That was exactly the opposite of what was going on inside of me. The tiger was calm, as it seemed to know its place in the world. I wanted the artist to depict the tiger as eager, ready to pounce, because that’s how I felt with Liz.

A few minutes later, we strolled into another gallery, and I saw a painting of a lone white bird resting on a branch. I went up closer to the wall and read its title: White Cockatoo on a Pine Branch. It was from the Edo period. It seemed kind of Zen-like. I carefully looked at its solitary eye, but when I did, the thing looked like a rabbit. I suppressed a giggle.

I glanced over at Liz to see her reaction. I couldn’t sense anything, although she also seemed to be looking carefully at the painting. God, there has to be something more interesting in this gallery, I thought. There was.

It was another Japanese painting. From the Mejia era, it was a picture of a tranquil man sitting near the edge of a cliff, looking up at the moon. The image in the square frame was circular and gave the impression of looking at the scene through the lens of a telescope or camera. Its title was Scholar Viewing the Moon.

Although it didn’t match how I felt, I liked its mysticalness. I turned to Liz to see her reaction. Her eyes revealed nothing.

Should I ask Liz how she feels about the painting? As quickly as I asked myself that question, I pulled back from even considering it. No way, I thought. There was nothing in her eyes that suggested it had affected her. I would be setting myself up for a disconnection, which wouldn’t be a great way to start a date.

After seeing some of the European collection, we went to Cambridge for lunch. Our conversation was easy, and I sensed she was feeling more relaxed with me. We decided to see a movie that night. I liked the way the day was going.

We went back to her apartment, had some coffee, and looked at the Calendar section of the Globe. I wanted to see something dramatic and uplifting. We decided to see Places in the Heart with Sally Field. It was playing at 6:45 at the Cheri, which was only a few minutes away from her place.

As we sat through the movie, I thought about the ugliness of racism and the unfairness of capitalism. The determination and faith of Sally Field’s character inspired me. Yet I couldn’t completely enjoy the movie because my mind kept wandering away from the screen.

I wondered what would happen after it was over. Was it time to end the date after the movie? We had been together straight since the morning. Maybe I would be pushing my luck to ask for more time with her.

Yet we hadn’t had dinner yet. Should I suggest a place to eat? Hell, what if she