The Ultimate Safety School
(Vanity Fair, 2010)
Welcome to Cutler College, deep in Delaware’s tony Chateau Country. This under-the-radar, Ivy-ish institution turns heads with celebrity spawn, Final Four appearances and a growing roster of billionaire alums. Just don’t mention the militarized campus police, mysterious disappearances or the bomb shelter at the heart of campus…
HAIL Alert:
Ride request, Giddy W.
Can you accept?
In the thumbnail of her HAIL profile pic Giddy W. hoisted a flute on a dusky palazzo, but outside the Cutler College gatehouse she was dressed like a cat burglar: hat, shades, tactical capris, plum and gold Cutler jumper.
She lunged for the back door of my Forager. Inside she clutched the handle and seemed to be holding her breath.
“Party City, please,” she chirped.
Usually I liked to chomp about how long I’d been driving, bugs in the app, recent scandals and tragedies. But with students I tended to let silence linger.
I recalled Giddy Wilton from fall’s Expository Memoir — over-explained absences and uninspired deliverables, followed by the usual threatening phone calls from a family fixer (something about “a Pepperdine Law legacy” on the line).
It was possible Giddy recognized me from class, but unlikely — Cutler was a theme park (its theme: inherited wealth), and I was a costumed extra.
Some days Giddy saw me in a classroom wearing elbow patches; other days I ferried her to the liquor store in my wagon or stamped her hand outside Stinky Pete’s.
The silence stretched as we crossed the bridge and the cinematic prosperity surrounding campus began to fade. My heater was busted and the car held a thick toasted scent, like a vacuum bag about to burst.
“Heater’s busted,” I said.
Giddy nodded, confused. My students were highly sensitive to imperfections, inefficiencies. They spent their days obsessing over imaginary slights and menacing inconveniences while their doormen juggled drone deliveries.
Finally the Party City skyline pulled into view, neon buzzing against a chemically-enhanced Delaware dusk.
Party City was a former truck stop turned black market mall.
While Cutler was designed to be a completely closed ecosystem (on-site bier hall, vineyard and distillery), there remained an appetite for off-campus goods: flavored vodkas, boxed wine, glassware and ghost guns.
I pulled into the parking lot and flicked the app as Giddy surveyed the scene. Frat boys heaved kegs into the back of a boosted pickup truck.
“Want me to wait?” I asked.
“I forgot my ID,” said Giddy. “Actually, the airline lost my luggage.”
My students had a shifty sense of narrative. Piles of excuses, always building to the same unspoken retort: What’re you gonna do about it?
“Need a ride someplace else?” I asked.
“Do you think,” said Giddy. “What if...you went in?”
I paused. “Into the store?”
She turned the silence against me until my mind wound up where it always did: account balances, interest rates, looming balloon payments.
Because despite the degrees, gigs and side hustles, store brands and Salvation Army styles, that’s where I remained: clinging to the line, loan sharks circling, one blown gasket or broken bone away from oblivion.
Giddy handed me a hundo. “Cherry whiskey. Keep the change.”
When I returned with Giddy’s booze somebody was slouched in the driver’s seat, back to the window, door locked.
I rapped glass until they turned: bankster brat Dink Knott, looking extra-handsome if slightly deranged, devilish jawline framed by matted blond shag. He smiled, slowly slid down the window.
“Hi. Who the fuck are you?”
“Howie Hawke,” I said. “It’s my car.”
“Do I recognize you?” He squinted. “Wait, Professor Hawke? You’re a HAIL driver?”
“Some days,” I said.
“Dink’s fresh from the casino,” said Giddy, seemingly starstruck.
“Don’t tell the Professor my business,” said Dink. “My secrets to success.”
“And I’ve heard,” Giddy continued, “he’s hosting a party tonight.”
“Now you’ve gone too far,” said Dink. “Spilling intel like that? Just look at the Professor here, waitin’ to pounce.”
Giddy’s eyes narrowed with renewed suspicion. I could feel them preparing to flank me. Dink was slight but wiry, a classic scrapper. His final essay jumped to mind — life lessons learned from Bridgehampton traffic court.
My Expository Memoir class was an opportunity for students to smooth out bumps in business school apps. In Dink’s case we’re talking actual bumps, plowing a “borrowed” convertible into some “protected” dunes at dawn. He pled down to disorderly and donated sand. It was all in the essay.
“Oh, I know Dink’s secret,” I said. “How’s it go? It is what it is.”
The rumbling frat rig screeched out of the lot and into the street, kegs clanking in the bed.
“There goes my ride,” said Dink. “Headed back to grounds?”
I turned on the radio to mask engine whine. Commentators discussed the return of debtor’s prison and I daydreamed about jail while swerving around sinkholes and other rotting infrastructure. Soon my passengers started trading bumps. I watched along in the rearview at red lights, nose twitching with either disgust or desire.
Giddy tapped her forehead. “What’d you do on break, Dink?”
“Deb balls, speedballs, community service. You?”
“Barbados,” said Giddy.
“Nasty,” said Dink. “What’s on tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh really?” Dink drawled. “Professor was trafficking a lotta booze back there if I recall correctly.”
“It’s my roommate’s birthday,” Giddy admitted.
“Well, you’re in luck,” said Dink. “We happen to have a Business Ethics pre-game popping off at the Mansion. I assume you’ve previously enjoyed Zeta hospitality?”
“Just the downstairs,” said Giddy.
“The downstairs,” said Dink. “Of course.”
Giddy texted. “My roommate wants to know, can her boyfriend come?”
“What do you think?” said Dink.
“He’s alright,” Giddy shrugged.
“Tell her: first off, happy birthday.”
“Aww.”
“And second,” said Dink, “if that kid sets foot on Zeta property he’ll be shot.”
“Jesus, fine,” said Giddy.
Dink dumped powder across his thumb. Giddy’s eyes latched to mine in the mirror for a hot second before I returned my attention to the wheel with just a slight overcorrection.
“Goddamn Professor,” said Dink. “Watch the fuckin’ road.”
When the horns died down Dink started licking Giddy’s neck. She seemed tolerant, almost interested. But when his hand slid she shivered, hacking on drip.
My phone rang.
“Who still calls?” Giddy wondered.
“Debt collectors,” I said, silencing.
“Here’s a question,” said Dink. “What’s with this raunchy cloth interior?”
We rolled through the Cutler gates, recently refortified, and nodded along to cobblestones.
“I can’t be seen in this shitcan,” said Dink. “Drop me by the squash courts.”
I pulled into the pavilion’s roundabout, noisy brakes drawing the disapproving eyes of students dressed in whites, rackets at their sides like briefcases.
“But…” said Giddy.
“I’ll see you and your friend later,” said Dink. “Don’t try and be a hero and bring that kid. Thanks for the ride, Professor. Want a tip? Febreeze.”
He slammed the door and stalked over to four match-flushed co-eds, leaving Giddy and I to our characteristic silence. And we didn’t trade a word all the way back to her dorm, even when the blood began to drip from her nose.
Later that evening I was stacking patio furniture outside Stinky Pete’s when Paulina popped out for a smoke break.
I watched her execute a flawless intercontinental inhale punctuated by a swirling finish, admiring (not for the first time) her elegant ease, the way she seemed to float above even the stickiest fray, skimming tips and compliments like bugs from a pool.
“What’s your book about again?” asked Paulina.
“Guess you could call it a bildungsroman,” I said.
Bart the bartender broke the spell.
“Y’all ready to rumble?” Bart asked. “Fixing to be a big night. Band takes the stage at 10 but we should get loud well before that. My sources say the Zetas have been rampaging all afternoon, so assume they’re headed this way with bad intentions and possibly tasers. Professor, try and maintain some order at the door for once. No expired passports. Also, dude, you’ve got shit all over your face. Is that goat cheese?”
I’d happened upon an abandoned tray of turkey wraps in the library.
“Moisturizer,” I said. “Gone?”
“You’re good,” said Paulina, aiming smoke at the sky.
“Wait a sec,” I said. “Tasers?”
Marbleheaded yacht-rockers Business Ethics played through a mist of rum and sweat. They dressed like well-heeled mimes and wielded pink Telecasters. In the crowd students wore Booze Cruise Casual: cableknit cut-offs and Nantucket reds, boaters and aviators, full foul weather gear.
Outside I shooed smokers from under the awning and settled onto my stool. The line was a formality. We were packed, well past capacity. Those stuck outside were shedding costumes, coming to terms with the night ahead, looking to patch together a halfway-decent contingency plan.
Soon enough a slick sophomore charged to the front, dragging his date.
“I don’t want a scene,” he said. “But we both know what has to happen.”
“Nail ‘em, Cartwell!” somebody shouted.
“Try tomorrow,” I said.
“Let me ask you a question: Do you like your job?”
“Which one?” I asked.
“Because my father could get you fired.” He sorta snapped his fingers. “Like that. So the smart play here...”
Another student elbowed his way to the front. “Dude, my dad could vaporize your dad.”
“Yeah right, Grady,” said Cartwell. “My dad would destroy your scrub family.”
“Good luck with that,” said Grady.
“It’s simple,” said Cartwell, squeezing his girlfriend. “My daddy’ll simply ring your daddy’s immediate superior...”
“My parents don’t have jobs,” said Grady.
“Unemployables, eh?” said Cartwell. “Tell me, do they own land?”
“Try a whole Finger Lake,” said Grady.
Cartwell chortled. “My dad’ll suck that puddle dry, salt the bedrock...”
I rose from the stool, my knees clicking. “Okay, everyone back in line.”
The girl under the umbrella stepped between Cartwell and Grady, shawl sliding down her shoulder. For a moment I thought she was choking. Then she reared back and launched a glob of spit onto my cheek.
Nothing moved but eyes while the wad slid down my face. The Stinky Pete’s handbook forbade customer contact, which was fine by me. I wasn’t the most intimidating muscle, more lump than beefcake. And it really was hard to hold anything against these idiots — they stumbled out of their deluxe dorms so ripped on shots, oils, library drugs and grain punch they were like tranquilized animals, charging at shadows.
I wiped my face with my shirt and closed the door on the crowd as they continued to bicker on the sidewalk.
“No, that’s your dad!” said either Grady or Cartwell.
Inside a different throng of psychos and socialites blocked the artery between the bar and the stage. The whole room was hazy with body heat while Business Ethics ripped through a Steve Miller medley.
I pressed forward until striking an immovable mass. My eyes scaled a man’s bare chest until a face emerged from behind the blockade.
“Hey, Professor!” Dink again, now sporting a bathrobe and fanny pack. “This here’s Norm Pennzoil. He stiff-arms the skanks and nerds. Norm, meet the Professor.”
Norm grunted. His sweat-beaded bulk was goddamn dented and both students wore prominent white smudges between their nostrils.
The Zetas were founded as a secret militia by one of Wolfgang’s more nihilistic nephews. Traditionally the richest of the rich kids, well-represented by alumni and feared by administrators.
Dink pulled cash from his Party Pouch, pointed to the bar. “Want a shot?”
“I’m working,” I said, although I was so thirsty my teeth ached.
“This guy,” said Dink. “Always working. What do you do for fun, Professor?”
“I don’t remember,” I said.
The two rubbed their noses as Bart splashed liquor across the bar.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
“Just watering down my second wind,” said Dink.
“It’s gettin’ gusty in here,” said Norm. “Goddamn white squall.”
They slurped through a row of shots, then began distributing them to various hangers-on, flashing Tasers, whipping the room into further frenzy until the whole place shook and the lights began to blink.
A fight broke out at last call. I was flushing the room for stragglers and from my initial perch in the back it seemed like mostly friction: a burst bottleneck, slipped headlocks, glancing blows. Then a drink splashed near Norm and everyone stepped back, cooing in anticipation.
Bart whistled an alarm but Norm had already landed like a tornado, flattening whatever emerged with fists and elbows and finally feet.
I searched the crowd for Paulina and found her behind the bar, transfixed as Norm grabbed one guy (another jock, maybe baseball) and threw him against the wall. Thankfully by the time I made it closer the action was over. Norm was already hunched over the bar, knuckles bloodied but otherwise unbothered.
“That was beautiful,” said Dink.