As regular readers of this Web log know, I have no problem with clients who prefer to remain anonymous. They don’t qualify for free initial consultations, of course, but I do ensure that the price of anonymity is, as we say here in Washington, de minimus – the cost of a mere thirty minutes of my attention and advice. Given that my standard and customary consultation is an hour and a half, that’s quite a bargain, in my opinion anyway.
Payment for clients who decline to reveal their identities is, naturally, required up front in cash, and by cash I mean US dollars. But despite his coming prepared with a considerable wad of bucks, it proved necessary for “Dick,” the person who visited me at the end of my schedule on Friday, to leave my establishment and return after Gretchen quoted him the price, presumably to make an urgent visit to one or more nearby ATM machines. It was late in the day, my regular appointments had all been fulfilled, and he was gone for nearly fifty minutes.
Nevertheless, I would point out that both Gretchen and I patiently waited for him to return, which he did, rather sheepishly handing over the money to Gretchen, who wrote him a receipt, secured the money in the office safe, then scurried out for what I can only assume was a very rushed trip home to hurriedly prepare for her usual Friday night carouse. It being only six o’clock in the evening, I myself was hardly inconvenienced, as my next stop was an eight-thirty dinner date with Cerise at the 1789 restaurant.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he began as he selected the couch by the picture window. “I know you must be very busy. They say you’re the smartest person in Washington DC.”
“Which is a lot,” I dryly responded, “like being the tallest building in Baltimore.”
“Baltimore?” “Dick” exclaimed, “hey, is Brendon Ayanbadejo completely awesome, or what?”
“Go Ravens,” I replied. “Although I understand they released him last month. How can I help you this evening?”
“It’s about… uh… Dr. Niall Ferguson.”
“You mean,” I sought to verify, “Niall Campbell Douglas Ferguson, the Laurence A. Tisch Professor of History at Harvard University?”
“Um… yeah,” “Dick” mumbled, “him.”
“Excuse me,” I observed, “but Dr. Ferguson is nearly fifty, and you’re… well, you can’t be more than thirty at most. Are you… a relative?”
“Not exactly,” “Dick” sighed. “But we’re very close, and I… care about him… intensely.”
“Oh,” I surmised, “so you’re one of his devoted… um… students, then?”
“Sure,” he nodded, “that’s good. One of his students. Absolutely – I’m one, um, I was one of his students.”
“Of history?” I inquired.
“Uh-huh,” he asserted. “History student.”
“Graduate or undergraduate?” I pressed.
“Um… er… ah… “ he stammered, “graduate. That’s why I care about him so much, because I’m… uh… I was… one of his graduate students.”
“So what’s your take on Thorstein Veblen’s concept of Instituional Economics?” I probed.
A protracted pause ensued.
“He… he… he’s a… genius,” my guest finally declared.
“And Veblen’s theory of conspicuous consumption?” I continued.
“Um… brilliant,” he offered.
“How do you think its historical impact compares with the Marxian model of the proletariat’s relationship to capital?” I inquired.
“Ah… well… uh… they’ve both had pretty big impacts,” he stammered, “otherwise, we wouldn’t be studying them, would we?”
“Very well,” I assured him, “your answers have absolutely convinced me that you were obviously a graduate student at Harvard University.”
“They… they have?” “Dick” mumbled back, dumbfounded.
“Of course,” I confirmed. “Spoken like a true Ivy Leaguer. So – what’s got you so worried about your dear professor that you would come all the way to Washington and pay such a considerable fee for my advice? He wasn’t your thesis advisor, by any chance, was he?”
“Not… exactly,” “Dick” confessed. “It’s more like he’s always been an… um… unofficial…. ah… mentor.”
“He provides you with… support?” I ventured.
“Sort of, yeah,” he nodded as he blushed bright crimson. “He helps a lot of… young… men… like me.”
“It’s nice to know,” I commented, “that Professor Ferguson is such a philanthropic humanitarian with concern for future generations. What’s happened to him, then?”
“Um… well… he was… uh… giving a speech to some investment advisors and said something… bad… about…”
“You’re referring,” I politely interjected, “to his remarks on John Maynard Keynes, which he made at the Tenth Annual Altegris Investment Group Conference in Carlsbad, California, earlier this week?”
“Yeah,” he gulped, “that one.”
“Where Professor Ferguson suggested that Keynesian economics is basically wrong because Keynes was gay and therefore selfish, and, being childless like all gay people, had no reason to care about future generations.”
“Uh-huh,” “Dick” confirmed. “And now he’s in a lot of trouble, too. He’s been apologizing all over the place to everybody, but the complaining won’t stop.”
“It will die down,” I predicted, “in a few days – or perhaps a few weeks – sooner or later, you see, depending on when the next prominent person makes a similarly idiotic, bigoted and insensitive remark about homosexuals. Then the public’s hue and cry for that person’s head on a platter will spread all over the media, and your dear Professor Ferguson’s half-witted prattle will be forgotten by the masses.”
“Just the masses?” “Dick” fretted with a forlorn expression.
“Not by the elites,” I warned. “No, they will be whispering about Professor Ferguson’s indiscretion behind his back for the next couple of decades. Fortunately, he has tenure, so there’s no danger that he will be without a steady income. On the other hand, he can expect that well-paid speaking engagements, such as the one where he distinguished himself this week, will become considerably fewer and far less…”
“That’s what I’m worried about!” “Dick” interrupted. “We need all the money he can… I mean, he needs all the money he can get!”
“With two wives and four children,” I remarked, “there’s no doubt he does.”
“That’s not what…” “Dick” fumed, then caught himself. “Um… yeah.”
“Where,” I wondered, “do you suppose Professor Ferguson got the idea that gay people are all selfish, don’t plan for the future and only care about living in the present moment?”
“I… I don’t know,” “Dick” shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Could it be,” I speculated, “that in fact, Professor Ferguson is, himself, at his true inner core, a deeply narcissistic, self-centered person devoted solely to immediate gratification of his own desires, but all the while masquerading to the outside world as, let us say… something else?”
“I… I’m not sure I understand,” my guest quietly murmured.
“Well,” I explained, “Professor Ferguson is from the United Kingdom, which is to say, he’s British, to the extent that any Scotsman can claim to be, of course. He attended both Oxford and Cambridge and now holds a distinguished chair at Harvard. Drop him in the middle of Memphis, Tennessee, for example, and let him interact with the locals. Within fifteen minutes, ninety-eight percent of them would conclude that Professor Ferguson is some sort of flaming queer, wouldn’t they?”
“Uh… I guess they would,” “Dick” conceded.
“And about five minutes after that,” I estimated, “Professor Ferguson would produce an utterance that would be misinterpreted as either a perverted overture to commit sodomy, a slur on America, the casting of aspersion on Old Glory, a bleeding-heart litany of sympathy for Moslem terrorists, an effete endorsement of the European Union, an expression of solidarity with illegal Hispanic immigrants, a call for gun control, or approval of the United Nations – at which point some burly redneck hillbilly would step up and use his ham sized, scar-covered fist to serve Professor Ferguson with a mouthful of bloody Chiclets.”
“Ugh…” “Dick” winced. “Yeah, you’re right, that is probably what would happen.”
“And the irony would be,” I observed, “that the redneck hillbilly would believe he had just pasted someone like John Maynard Keynes a good one, right in his high-falutin’, English-talkin’ faggot cap-and-gown wearin’, snotty-pansy-British-school-goin’, Ivy League pie hole.”
“Creeps like that,” my guest shuddered, “make decent people sick to their stomachs.”
“Which ones,” I sought to clarify, “the big, stupid, sweaty violent rednecks or conceited twits like Dr. Niall Ferguson?”
Another long moment passed in silence. At last, my guest slowly spoke.
“You’re right again – he’s loathsome and disgusting. I… I don’t think I’m going to… um… need any… of his… mentoring anymore.”
“Just a moment,” I requested as I rose, went into the anteroom behind my office, opened the wall safe and retrieved “Dick’s” envelope of cash. Returning to my desk with it, I looked him straight in the eye.
“If Keynesian economics is a bad idea, it’s not because Keynes was gay. Take this,” I told him, indicating the envelope. “You’re going to need it a hell of a lot more than I am.”
He did.