Frank lived in Gloria’s building, and we met at a party given by another tenant. After my first glimpse of him standing in the middle of the room, I turned to Gloria and said, “Where did they dig up Abe Lincoln?” I assumed immediately, and correctly, that he was a history major, since that department had a reputation for corraling the oddest-looking people on campus. He had the uniform black-frame glasses and the pipe filled with Cherry Blend, the requisite tattered turtleneck (although it was the middle of May) and the worn trousers shiny in the seat. His stiltlike legs seemed to compose more than half his height of well over six feet. Actually, he didn’t look at all like Abe Lincoln; his face wasn’t that dramatic. I remember thinking his features were actually recessive, because there was nothing distinctive or imposing about them. His eyes were simply oval, his nose short and straight, his mouth neither too thin nor too ample. Viewed full face, he was average; in profile, forgettable. For 1958, his hair was rebelliously long, the color of mud, the texture of straw. He was nothing the movies were looking for and not what I would have looked for—had I been looking.

The party was quite successful. Most of the people were serious students who on the weekends became serious drinkers. Long before midnight, most of us were drunk and playing a vicious game called Speculation, wherein each of us matched up two unpopular faculty members, created an unlikely dialogue between them, then speculated on what they could possibly find to do with each other in bed. I loved this game (I played only those games I was good at) because my speculations usually made me the center of attention. At these parties, I was the rock, with all kinds of crosscurrents caressing me. This party was no exception—until I went into the kitchen to freshen my drink. Just before I reached the doorway, I heard Frank say inside: “It’s the purest form of love there is.”

I rounded the corner in time to see the other man responding with a smirk. “What is?” I asked.

Frank blushed at my intrusion. “It’s too involved,” he replied.

“Don’t you history people ever relax?”

He smiled indulgently, and his silence indicated the conversation would continue only after I left. I took my time mixing my drink. They waited. Not a word. At parties, there were damned few conversations I was not welcome in. I was the one who did the picking and choosing. Just where did this recessive Abe Lincoln get off being a snob?

The more I drank, the larger the slight became, and I grew sullenly discontent with the attention the others were paying me. The next time I went to the kitchen, I stood on the other side of the doorway and eavesdropped.

“A good historian is never completely objective,” Frank was saying to his companion. “Without subjectivity, you might as well let those computers write the textbooks.”