Nancy Nett
I was around 27, a graduate student in philosophy at Ohio
State. It was fall, and I think I
already had my Masters degree. I was
hanging around, teaching classes, taking some classes, trying to decide what I
wanted to do next. Professor McDonald
had left OSU, a bad situation, and I really had planned to do my dissertation
with him. Jaakko Hintikka, the famous
Finnish philosopher, was there and I considered working with him, but that’s a
long story that is not the one I want to tell now. I want to write about Nancy Nett. I’ll get to how she came into my life, and
what she meant to it, and how she left it, after setting the stage.
It was a lovely fall in Columbus, and the philosophy
department had a philosophy of mind conference, and lots of great people were
there. Bill Lycan was at OSU, one of the
greats in philosophy of mind, and the conference included Jerry Fodor and Paul
Churchland. I think John Searle was
there, too. Big conference. There was an opening paper on Friday night,
followed by a little wine and cheese reception in the department afterwards.
Then papers starting at 8 or so the next morning, and running all day. Can’t remember the first paper, because at
the wine and cheese reception, I looked across the room to see the most
stunning woman I had ever seen. She
looked interesting, and she was standing there, with a date-like guy, holding a
cheese plate and a glass of wine, laughing.
I can still remember her moving her hand to the side of her mouth as she
laughed, just like you’ve seen in the movies a hundred times. I walked over and joined the conversation. I have no idea who else was involved, or who
this guy was, or even what he was to her. I didn’t care. This person, Nancy Nett, I came to discover
was her name, was fascinating.
Exhilarating. I saw or heard
nothing else the rest of the evening, just her.
Eventually this guy, an engineer or lawyer or something, one of the most
boring of that sort of person, wanted to leave. Nancy, it turns out, was an undergraduate
in philosophy. I did ask before they
left, Oh, so are you two coming tomorrow?
Of course he wasn’t and let that be known. And, of course, she was. Oh good, I said, maybe I’ll see you
there. Maybe I’ll spend every minute
looking for you there was more like it.
I could not wait until the next day.
Forgot to say, I was a few years into a relationship with
Diane. But that day, before I had left her place to go to the conference, we
had had a major argument. Things had
been bad for a while, and while I know no one actually said, “we’re broken up,”
given what had been said, I thought it was a reasonable inference. And it couldn’t have come at a better time,
it turned out.
Saturday morning, I was up early, off to the
conference. I remember coffee and
pastries before the show at about 8, and standing around, no Nancy Nett. I remember seeing Paul Churchland in the
audience, and Fodor had arrived. The first paper got under way. I sat in a conspicuous place, by myself, seats
available on both sides. No Nancy
Nett. The first paper ended, there were
some questions, and then, as the second paper was about to begin, she slipped
in, from the back, and sat down beside me.
“What have I missed?” “Oh, just
me not being able to breathe until you got here,” I would have said if I could
have been completely truthful. “Nothing
much. First paper wasn’t too good,” I
said, but I had no idea what the paper had been like. The guy could have solved the Problem of
Other Minds for all I knew.
“I overslept, and missed the first paper. Sorry. I was dying to get here,” she said. Wow. I know what she meant. I was sitting there, for the next couple of
papers until the break, in silence with her for the most part, but it was like
I somehow knew we were on the same wavelength.
I’d like to think I held her hand, but I know I couldn’t have done
that. We had to talk. Break came, more coffee. We stood alone together, just looking at each
other, in the same kind of wonder, about what was going to happen. I have no idea if there were others around us,
or if there was a building around us, or if we had been transplanted to the
moon. I was fixated on her, and she on
me. “So, was that your…, “ I said, not
even having to finish. “No, no, I just
asked him if he wanted to come, not wanting to come to this alone. I wish I wouldn’t have now, I would have liked
to stay.” Yeh. Me, too.
That day, we spent together. The next day, together. Mostly at her place, trying to make sure we
avoided Diane who might show up at mine.
I told her about Diane, that it was over. It seemed over. I eventually had the conversation with Diane,
yep, it’s over. Nancy and I spent days
together, just leaving her apartment, and bed, to get food, and to go to class.
We talked about philosophy, epistemology, metaphysics, psychology, history,
science, Freud, Skinner. She was a
junior, maybe, a couple of years younger than me, but older than 21, the age
most juniors would be. Somehow, I forget the story now, she had taken some time
off.
I might know why. Nancy, my beautiful, brilliant Nancy Nett,
had some neurological issue. I forget
the details. She had had surgery, and
they had removed a chunk from the back of her head, not quite golf ball sized,
kind of where that bone sticks out on each side of your skull, in back, an inch
or so from your ear. I remember her
taking her hand and putting my hand there. I could have squeezed her and held
her seemingly forever. It made her even
more loveable, if that were possible.
Days were glorious, nights even better. Nancy Nett’s life was filled with art, music,
philosophy, books, literature, poetry. As was mine. Now we had them together. I have forgotten some details. This was over 25 years ago. I remember her parents coming into town, from
Centerville, Ohio, near Dayton. She introduced me, and they were lovely people.
They took us out to dinner, I can’t remember where now, but I could draw the
room. Open brick walls. Plants. We ordered several bottles of wine, and I
think Nancy and I took some home for later.
I remember feeling really comfortable with her parents.
A week or so went by. Maybe two, maybe more. I remember
running into Diane one day on campus. I could point out the place we passed
each other. We talked. She asked if I wanted
to get back together, and I said okay.
If you want to pinpoint the biggest mistake in all my life, this was it.
In this story. Here. Yes. I said yes.
We got together that night, I have no idea the details, but I remember,
and I think I’m right about this, Diane laying it on thick, being very
romantic. I remember her saying, it’s ok, whatever you did when we were broken
up. That was a couple of days into it,
being back with Diane. I went to Nancy
Nett and broke the news. She wasn’t mad. She was crushed. It was awful.
She could have just blown up at me, yelled and screamed, made it
easier. But this she didn’t, couldn’t
do. It wasn’t in Nancy Nett.
I remember a few days later, Diane saying, come on, you can
tell me, you can. Did you see anyone else?
I know this now, and I can advise anyone. When a woman, hell,not just a
woman, men do this, too, anyone, when ANYONE asks you to tell them what you did
when you were broken up, you can tell me anything, etc., DO NOT TELL. IT is not
true. They might think it is, but it is
not. I did. We had a big fight. Stiil, I stuck it out. Had to make this work.
Diane and I lasted another 8 years or so.Twelve total. I sometimes jokingly say we had two good
years and ten bad ones, but the joke is that there weren’t two good ones. Why I stayed, why I said yes that day, and a
million more times, I’ll never know.
Part of writing this, part of coming to grips with it, at 55, is to
evaluate who I am now, why I wouldn’t do that now. Yeh, I was majorly messed up in my 20s. Years of therapy have helped.
Nancy Nett got married some time after that and moved away.
To some guy who was in psychology, in Psi Chi, the honor society for psychology. Diane was in it, and knew him. Gladly let me
know Nancy Nett had gotten married. I
went on, with Diane, without Nancy Nett, for eight more grueling years.
Finally, Diane and I broke up, this time for good. I was in
Blacksburg, Virginia, where we had moved for her job. It was ugly, messy, and I have no good
memories of Diane. Twelve fucking years
and all the good times we had mean a drop in the ocean compared to what two
weeks with Nancy Nett meant in my life. Sad?
Fucking hell yeh, it’s sad.
I tried to find Nancy Nett when we broke up. Maybe she was divorced. There might have been
some recurrence of the neurological condition, it wasn’t out of the question
she had told me, and so maybe she was…is…dead.
I looked up Nett in Centerville, to find her parents, and nothing. I called the department secretary in
philosophy, who had known Nancy Nett some, but she couldn’t find her. I didn’t try too much harder. I’m no good at finding people. The internet
didn’t even exist then.
Do I miss her? I don’t know.
I never really spent lots of time with her. I never really knew what it would be like, to
have Nancy Nett as my partner. I fucked up.
I live. I haven’t thought about her for a long time, but tonight, for
some reason, I did. I told a friend a
bit of the story. I became wistful. Ok,
I do miss Nancy Nett. I don’ t have a
Nancy Nett in my life. Is it impossible?
To find someone near my age who is interested in philosophy, art, music,
conversation, romance, history, science, Freud, Skinner, reading, literature,
poetry, all of the above, lather rinse and repeat? Is it possible to find someone as graceful,
and charming, and funny, and brilliant at 55?
I don’t want a 20 something. I
want a woman my age who is still alive, like Nancy Nett was, and, if she’s
alive, IS. IS.
I was an insecure jerk then.
Maybe it’s best. Maybe I would have fucked it up royally. Maybe she would hate me. Maybe we would have remained friends all
these years, even after the breakup.
Either would suck. Now, I have
this beautiful story in my head, this unfulfilled dream. Nancy Nett will always be young and beautiful
in that story, in that dream.
I loved Nancy Nett. I love Nancy Nett to this day, I guess.
I know, how can you use that big powerful word for someone you slept
with for two weeks 25 years ago? I
know. I know. I love our time together, and I love how she
treated me, and I love the story and image.
I don’t know. I don’t even know
in looking back on anyone I dated, even for years, was it really love? Love with a capital L? Some, like a four year relationship in high school
and college, just seem too far away. Was
that love, back then? I have no way of assessing it, in any case. Diane, twelve years? I doubt it. A more recent two year relationship, that was
fabulous for a year and then started falling apart in the second? Was that love? Real love? Mad love, shadow love, random love
and abandoned love? (Thanks, Warren.) All I know, if any of ‘em were, Nancy Nett
was, too. And if I could have that
conversation with anyone, now, today, about love and its meaning and import, it’s
veridicality and nuances, it would be with Nancy. Nett.
All the names have been changed here, except for the
philosophers of note. And Nancy Nett’s. I leave it in. As is. I don’t know if I want to find
her. I could look on FB, but I won’t. I know
now. I won’t. I don’t want to know now if she’s dead, or if
she’s still married. If she’s happy, I
would love that, but I don’t want to know it.
If it’s true, it doesn’t matter if I know it. If there’s a slight chance she’s alive, and
single, or in a bad marriage, I’d be there in a minute. I’m still crazy, I damn well have plenty of
proof of that now!
No, I don’t want to know.
I don’t know where to put this story.
I’ll put in on my website, and tell my friends to read it. I might try to get it published, but
where? Somewhere obscure, sure.
Somewhere where there’s a snowball’s chance in Hell anyone would read it and
know Nancy Nett. I’d do that. If I could publish it in something everyone
read, would I? I don’t think so. I don’t want to know. I don’t.
I don’t think. If it was in
something obscure, and someone knew and wrote me, well, that’s be freakish and
ok. Somehow. But I don’t want to
try. Much.
Finally, I think I may introduce the idea that maybe not all
of this is true. Some of it is. Maybe I
embellished to make it a better story.
No, it’s true. Ha ha. Even introducing the idea that it might be false
and saying no, it’s true, introduces the notion it might be false. The idea that this is all creative, just
fiction, what a nice possibility! (There
is one glaring error of fact in this story as written, and it is readily
checkable and would lead someone to say, hey, that’s not true. I know, now, that it isn’t true. It was simply misremembered as I wrote it. At least one friend who will read this and
who was there will catch it immediately.
I leave it in, because…maybe veracity isn’t all it is cracked up to be.)
Thank you, Nancy Nett.
For those two glorious weeks.
Wherever you are.
