by R. J. Blacks
“Well, Rachel Carson was concerned about the extinction of species. My dissertation is about subtle changes in behavior.”
“And I assume you have proof?” she fires back.
I fumble through my notes, hold up a report.
“I have here a paper by Dr. Robert Smith, University of Vermont. He documents strange mating behavior among tree frogs in a region where high levels of the herbicide Atrazine were found.”
“Strange mating behavior?”
“Yes,” I answer. “Male tree frogs ignored the females preferring instead to mount each other.”
“Maybe they’re gay,” she quips.
The audience breaks out in laughter, except for Logan. I feel my face get red, search for a way out.
“I apologize, Dr. Haas; I hadn’t considered that.”
“Get with it girl. We don’t give away PhD’s to people who jump to conclusions.”
“Sorry Dr. Haas.”
I pull myself together, search through my folder, and then read from another report.
“In southern Georgia, a new species of mosquito called ‘Gallinippers’ has been observed. They’re twenty times the size of ordinary mosquitoes and their bite is like the sting of a wasp. Dr. Drew Dobson, of Georgia Tech, published a theory that these mutant monsters are the result of pesticides altering the DNA of dormant mosquito larvae.”
“A theory?” she says. “You should well know that a theory, until proven, is just speculation. It has no place in a dissertation.”
My hands shake. I feel overwhelmed, lightheaded. I fumble through my notes again, hold up another report.
“In another study, at a Florida lake, where high concentrations of the herbicide, ‘Farm-eXia’ were recorded, Dr. Jessica Parker, of Florida University, filmed a school of bait fish ganging up on a Pickerel ten times their size, driving it out of their territory.”
“Well,” she says. “Animals do strange things all the time. You need more than that before accusing respected companies of misdeeds.”
The man sitting next to Dean Haas stands up.
“I am Eldridge Broadhampton,” he announces, “the founder of Global World Industries, and damn proud of it.”
He glances around the room making eye contact with some of the VIP’s.
“I assure you, all of you, I would never permit the sale of Farm-eXia until it was fully tested and proven to be absolutely safe. Those that know me will attest to that.”
Murmurs envelop the room. I can’t believe this is happening. This was the moment I had worked for, seven days a week, into the early hours of the morning, for the last four years. And it was disintegrating in front of my eyes. I knew I had to do damage control, and fast, or it would be all for nothing.
“I never meant to imply that Farm-eXia was unsafe, only that—”
Eldridge Broadhampton cuts me off, then places his hand on the shoulder of the man sitting next to him, the one with the blue pin-striped suit.
“Ellis Grimes here has read the dissertation and was appalled by what was in it. Ellis, tell them what you told me.”
Ellis stands. “I am special counsel to Mr. Broadhampton. I reviewed the dissertation and found it to be an unfair attack on the integrity of our esteemed company, GWI. I was especially offended by the implications that the moral rectitude of Mr. Broadhampton is in question. I have known him for almost ten years and I assure you he aspires to the highest ethical standards of any man I’ve ever met.”
The crowd applauds spontaneously.
“But those are just my opinions,” he continues. “To be totally fair to the candidate, I asked our scientists and engineers to review the document and give it their unbiased opinions. They universally agreed it was fraught with errors and reckless speculation. The overwhelming conclusion among these distinguished professionals was the following: This candidate is not yet ready to receive the honorable title of ‘Doctor’,” he says, raising his voice to a crescendo.
The room is so quiet I can hear my heart pound. Then Dean Haas chimes in and delivers the coup de grace, presumably to put me out of my misery.
She announces: “I move to adjourn, until Ms. Wells has the wherewithal to put together a dissertation that is worthy of our presence.”
Logan stands up, comes to my defense.
“May I respectfully remind the board, if you adjourn, the candidate will be unable to reapply for two years.”
“I’m well aware of the rules Dr. Smith. Please sit down.”
I can’t remember a time I was more humiliated. My heart is pounding, my hands are shaking, and I just want her to sit down and let me finish. But then she slides into the aisle, glares at me, along with the rest of the suits, and bellows:
“Honey, take my advice, lose the hair.”
The next thing I know Dean Haas storms up the aisle followed by her two companions. She pushes open the door and exits along with the two men. I stand there at the podium, watching helplessly, as the rest of the audience files out behind her, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it! Within minutes the room is empty, devoid of the thirty previous inhabitants, all except for Logan and me.
Speechless, I approach Logan. He knows I’m wounded. I seek his comfort to ease the pain.
“Wow, I’ve done dozens of these and never saw her do that,” he says.
“What happened?”
“Not sure, apparently something ticked her off.”
“I don’t know what they’re talking about,” I say. “I never accused Broadhampton of anything. You know that.”
“They sure think you did.”
“I don’t get it. If there was a problem... why would Dean Haas approve it?”
Logan avoids eye contact; I sense something is wrong.
“She did approve it, didn’t she?”
“It doesn’t need to be approved,” he snaps. “I’m only required to put it up for peer review and that’s what I did.”
“So you gambled with my future by neglecting to get it approved?”
“Damn it! I told you, it’s up to the advisor. I made a decision and... ” Logan paces the floor, avoids confronting me. And then he turns to face me. “Okay maybe you’re right. I should have gotten it approved, just to make sure.”
He stops in front of me, gently takes my shoulders, gazes into my eyes.
“Look, I’ve known Dean Haas for almost twenty years. We have a good working relationship. She never once questioned my judgment.”
I take a moment to gather my thoughts.
“Okay, it was up for peer review. Then why did she wait until now to raise her objections?”
He rubs his chin, looks troubled.
“I was wondering that myself,” he says.
He puts on his overcoat, then buttons up the front.
“It’s probably just a misunderstanding. As soon as I leave here, I’ll go see her, straighten it out.”
I look into his eyes and begin to relax. He has a way of calming me, making me feel better, making me believe everything he says.
“Why don’t you go home, get some rest?”
“Okay,” I say, and gather up my things.
He waits for me to put on my jacket, and then, follows me up the aisle towards the lobby. I reach for the door handle, then turn to face him one last time, searching for some reassurance before I exit into the frigid air outside.
“I’ll call you when I hear something,” he says. “Remember, I’m here for you.”
CHAPTER 2
My apartment is nothing to write home about, but at least it’s clean and most importantly, free of bugs. I’ll never forget the first night I slept here. I woke up at 3:00 AM; something was scratching at my ear. I turned on the light and there on my pillow was a black cockroach, about 2 inches long. I screamed so loud my neighbor called the cops. Do you have any idea what it’s like to open the door at 3:00 AM, in my pajamas, and see two policemen pointing their weapons right at my head? When I told them it was a cockroach they laughed so hard I almost wished I’d made u
p some story about how some stranger broke into my bedroom and tried to rape me at knifepoint. As the cops were leaving down the hall I could hear them joking and laughing at me. How embarrassing.
They say that once you have roaches you can’t get rid of them because, for every one you see, there are a hundred more behind the walls. But I wasn’t so easily defeated. I went out and bought eight of those roach traps, the ones with the sticky stuff on the bottom, and placed all eight in the apartment at the same time. The next morning, all eight traps were so full of roaches they were two levels deep. There must have been hundreds of them. Some were only caught by a leg or two, and trying to get free. I was so grossed out I dare not throw the traps in the trash. The thought of all those roaches crawling back into my apartment was too terrifying. So I placed all eight traps in a cardboard box, carefully sealing all the edges with tape so not even a flea could get out. I then carried the box to the river, a few blocks away, and dropped it in the water. I watched the box float down the river, carried along by the outgoing tide. If those roaches ever did eat their way through the box, at least they would be miles from here. But I’m pretty certain they have long since become a tasty meal for some lucky fish. After that, I never saw another roach. I must have magically beaten the odds and decimated the entire roach population in my apartment in one fell swoop and that made me glad.
I reach into the refrigerator searching for something to snack on. Normally I would be making dinner at this time, but the anxiety of the day put me out of the mood. I can whip up a pretty good meal when I’m motivated, but it was not always that way.
When I was a freshman, I couldn’t even get a frozen pizza right. My diet consisted mostly of cheese steaks, a staple of Philadelphia life. For lunch, I would jog over to Frank’s, only a half-mile from campus, and order a large. I would eat half right away and save the remaining portion for dinner. If you haven’t had a Philly Cheese Steak from Frank’s, then you haven’t lived. They’re home to the greatest cheese steak on the planet. It’s not uncommon for native Philadelphians to debate passionately what it is that makes them so good. Some say it’s the bread. Others insist it’s the meat. Still others argue it’s the cheese. I really don’t know. But whatever it is, I can declare with absolute certaintivity, they are the best.
But then, after a couple of months of this, the routine was beginning to get stale. It really is possible to have too much of a good thing. But more importantly, the daily expense was beginning to cut deeply into my reserves. I knew I had to do something else.
One day, I came across this Betty Crocker cookbook at the thrift shop. It was only fifty cents so I took it home and started to experiment, substituting alternative ingredients out of necessity. I mean, you don’t always have everything the cookbook asks for, so I had to improvise. I think my interest in chemistry helped. It motivated me to try the “what ifs”: what if I used this, or what if I used that. One day all that experimenting paid off. It happened like this; I was supporting myself with a waitress job when the regular cook suddenly developed appendicitis and was rushed to the hospital. Sid, the owner, was frantic, tried to get a substitute cook, but no one was available at that hour of the night. Then he says to me, “Know how to cook?”
I answered, “A little.”
“Good,” he says, “I’ll work the floor and you take the kitchen, with a $50 bonus for the trouble.”
I was happy to do it. It was a break in the routine and I like to try new things anyway. Looking back I should have tried the job sooner, but I was always afraid I wasn’t good enough. So at nine o’clock that night I start working in the kitchen and Sid starts getting all these compliments about the food. When the night was over, and the last patron leaves, he says to me, “Where did you learn to cook like that?”
I answer, “I taught myself.”
“Well,” he says, “You’re more use to me in the kitchen than on the floor. If you take the job, I’ll double your salary.”
How do you walk away from an offer like that, especially when you’re barely making the rent? So I accepted and the rest is history as they say. Sid would constantly get compliments about the food, but he let everyone know in no uncertain terms that it was all my doing. He even named a dessert after me, “Indigo Pie” he called it, because it reminded him of my blue hair. It was a concoction of Blueberries, Greek Yogurt, and Kiwi slices over a thin, lightly toasted crust. I threw it together using ingredients left over from previous recipes. The blueberries gave the pie a blue tint helped along by a dash of food coloring. At first, Sid would give a complimentary slice only to the regulars he knew well. But when more and more customers demanded a piece of the “Blue Pie” he decided he had no choice but to put it on the menu.
But I think my most memorable night was the time Sid gets this call telling him his restaurant just won the coveted “Best of Philly” award. He was so overjoyed he gives me a one-thousand dollar bonus right on the spot. I kept that job for five and a half years, until I entered Grad School and was offered a Grad Assistant position. It paid the same as the restaurant job, but also offered reduced tuition which I really needed. Old Sid was sorry to see me go, but he understood. He often took me aside and reminded me that my future was the most important thing and I should never look back. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything; it really taught me a lot about life.
I find a couple of burritos in the fridge, left over from the previous night. I’m about to pop them in the micro when my cellphone rings. It’s Logan. I quickly answer it.
“Hello.”
“Can you meet me at Ricky Stinks?” he asks.
“Sure, what did you find out?”
“It’s complicated,” he responds. “I’d rather explain it in person.” Logan has never said that to me. He has always been open, like a friend. Something was wrong.
“What is it?”
“I have to go. Ricky Stinks at eight, okay?”
“Okay,” I respond, not really having any choice.
I slip into a pair of jeans even though I prefer the look of a skirt. But the temperature is plunging, and it’s a good thirty minute walk to Ricky’s. I’m not looking forward to having the frigid night air whip against my bare legs. Outside, another six inches of snow had been added to the foot already on the ground. And there’s no indication it’s letting up; in fact, it appears the pace has quickened. I can see the owners of the small stores and boutiques along the path valiantly trying to keep their sidewalks clear, but as soon as they are done, another inch has already been laid. Some of them are giving up the battle, shutting off lights and locking the front door figuring that no one would be shopping on a wretched night like this anyway. Why not spend the evening with a loved one? That’s exactly what I was about to do.
Up ahead I see the bright neon sign for Ricky’s Stinks. It dominates the area, coloring the huge piles of snow various hues of red, green, and blue. The street has largely emptied out from the usual bumper-to-bumper traffic. Most of the suits are already home, or with their mistresses, telling their spouses they have to work late. A snow emergency works well in their favor; it’s a plausible excuse for not returning home that night.
When I was a freshman, living in the dorm, the older girls would talk about the suits late at night, after daring each other with shots of Tequila. They would tell us stories about how the suits would befriend some young unassuming coed impressing her with his wealth and power. At first it would be innocent. But as the friendship matured, he would complain, in a helpless puppy-dog manner, how his wife was always too busy for him, traveling around the world pursuing her photography hobby. Of course it was all BS, but the inexperienced coeds would suck it up thinking they could save the world. Next thing they know they are in over their head. These things would usually run their course over the period of a year or two, then end abruptly, when the coed came to believe there was actually something between them and demanded more time. Suddenly her prince no longer returns calls. She chalks that up to his busy schedule. Bu
t after two weeks goes by and she hasn’t heard a thing, the coed begins to imagine something might be wrong. So she expedites her efforts to contact him. Then comes the fateful text message. Most suits don’t have the balls, that is, the courage and dignity to end a relationship in person. Not even a personal phone call from them. They take the coward’s way out, a cockamamie text message that goes something like this; “My wife found out about us and I have to end it.” That’s it, no apology, no explanation, not even a goodbye. The truth is, he probably already has a new love and that busty coed just isn’t exciting anymore. And so it goes.
I push open the door; the warm air and smell of tacos are wonderful. The place is sparse, even for a Tuesday night when it’s slow anyway. Even the guitarist, who plays seven days a week, is missing. The TV weather reports had been relentless about this storm, building it up to monster status. I’m sure it scared more than a few customers away. Logan sees me, waves. I smile, quickly join him at a table all the way in the back. The back is where students, pulling an all-nighter, congregate. It’s private, the coffee flows freely, and there are plenty of snacks to satisfy a late night hunger attack.
“I ordered this for you,” he says, and slides an oversized lime margarita in front of me. Normally I love lime margaritas, especially the ones at Ricky’s with a generous sprinkling of salt crystals around the rim. But tonight?
“Thanks, but I think I would rather have hot chocolate,” I say.
“You’re going to need this.”
The anxiety I had managed to shed during the stroll over here wells up inside me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Logan picks up the margarita, hands it too me.
“Take a drink first,” he insists.
I expected him to tell me how my confrontation with Dean Haas was all a misunderstanding and how he had made everything right. I take a sip of the margarita, then another. It feels good going down my throat, soothing it from the irritation caused by the frigid night air. Not having eaten anything since this morning, and only a small granola bar at that, the alcohol goes right to my head. I feel myself getting lightheaded.
