by R. J. Blacks
He carefully finishes chewing and then says: “I was feeling real cold so I got up and started walking to the shelter. The next thing I know’d I was in the hospital.”
“You passed out. The guard found you.”
“I guess I owe him one. I’ll thank him when I get back.”
“Don’t you realize, if the guard hadn’t found you, you could be dead?”
“He’s a nice guy,” Will says.
“You can’t go on like this, sleeping on that bench in this blistering cold,” I say, scolding him.
Will ignores me, wolfing down the steak like it’s his last meal. I know he hears me, but there’s no way out for him. He knows it and I know it too. He has no money and no job. It’s an endless cycle like a carousel with no way off. I sit with him another half hour, until he finishes the coffee.
“They say I can leave tomorrow,” he says, eking out a smile. “I’m feeling better already.”
“Where will you go?”
“Where can I go? I need to return to my family.”
The family he was talking about were the pigeons he fed religiously every day. They depended on him, or so he imagined. It was the only family he had, except for his brother in Florida. His whole life revolved around that snow-covered bench across from old Ben. It was the only life that made any sense to him.
Heading back to my apartment I think about guys like Will. Men at the top of their craft, military men, trained for the unimaginable. Then sent to foreign countries, to protect us from our enemies, and now just abandoned, a relic of the past. We used them when they were useful and now they are refuse. There was something wrong with that picture and it disturbed me greatly.
But what can I do about it? Just like millions of other people, I’m so wrapped up in my daily life, dealing through my own problems; I don’t even have time to think about it.
CHAPTER 5
The next morning, after a breakfast of oatmeal and eggs, hastily thrown together, my future haunts me. Even if I get a job, it doesn’t solve anything. I’d just be an undergrad with a low-paying job that leads nowhere. I need a plan, a long-term plan, to get back to my studies and earn that most sought-after prize, the Holy Grail of education, a PhD. The problem is, I’m toxic right now, both to universities and to industry. Universities depend on grants to fund their research and to pay for laboratories. No one is going to risk millions of dollars in future grants by helping a nobody like me. The stakes are high and the task formidable. What to do?
I think about what went wrong on that fateful Tuesday when I was giving my dissertation. I go over it step by step trying to figure out what I could possibly do to get back into Dean Haas’s favor. It wouldn’t be easy, but what choice did I have? If I applied to another university I would have to supply a transcript. And a transcript at that level would have to be signed by Dean Haas. What about scholarships, or even tuition assistance, which I desperately need? I would need a letter of referral from Dean Haas to be even considered. I don’t imagine she would be in any mood to give me a glowing report after her tirade at the dissertation. How would I explain to the Director of Admissions of a prospective university that the reason I was kicked out was because I pissed off the biggest producer of environmental chemicals in the world? I’m sure that would go over well. Yes, the key was obvious; I needed to get back into Dean Haas’s favor, but how?
I think about it over and over until my head hurts. I switch on the TV for a distraction, surf through the channels, but there’s nothing worth watching. I’ve seen it all before. I pick up a magazine, thumb through the pages, but nothing grabs my interest. My thoughts turn to Will. I wonder if he made good on his determination to return to his bench today. Then I get an idea. I retrieve the second Styrofoam box from the refrigerator, the one from Sid’s. It contains Lasagna from a recipe I developed over five years ago and was still being used by the new cook. Sid’s customers still praise it as the best outside of Italy. I had cut off a small slice for dinner last night, but there was still a large piece left. It would make a good lunch for Will. I pop it in the microwave then retrieve a couple of bread sticks to go with it. I place the whole thing in a plastic bag then head out the door.
I pass through the black-iron gates and head for Ben. The paths are now clear, aided by the sunshine, and the usual bustle of the university is back to normal. The weather reports predicted a high of only twenty today, but it doesn’t feel that cold. The wind has died down and the sun makes it feel warmer than it is. I see my friend Ben, and there is Will, on the bench he calls home. He’s doing what he enjoys the most, feeding the pigeons, his family, as he calls them.
“Hi Will,” I say.
He shushes me, holds up his hand to keep me away; he doesn’t want me scaring his pigeons. I sit on another bench, the one with Ben. Will finishes his daily task then shakes the paper bag, emptying the remaining crumbs onto the snow. The pigeons dash for whatever morsel they can get before being pushed aside by a more aggressive pigeon. Then in one fell swoop, they all take to the air at once. They circle once then head for the nearest church roof to roost.
Will waves me over.
“How do you feel,” I ask.
“Better.”
“Hungry?”
“I’m always hungry,” he replies.
“Look what I brought you,” I say, opening the Styrofoam tray. Will examines the contents, breaks into a smile.
“I love Lasagna. How did you know?”
I don’t know quite how to answer that so I just fake it.
“Everyone loves Sid’s Lasagna.”
“Oh, it’s from Sid’s.”
I hand Will a plastic knife and fork and he doesn’t waste a second. He digs right in, giving the impression he hasn’t eaten in days. But I guess a warm meal on a cold day is enough to stimulate any appetite. Will takes out his Thermos, pours himself a cup of coffee. He puts his coffee cup aside, retrieves a paper cup from his bag, fills it, and then hands it to me. I hesitate; he reads my body language.
“It’s new. Wouldn’t give you a dirty cup.”
I feel my face getting red, embarrassed that I questioned his integrity. But he is so wrapped up in his meal, I know he doesn’t care or even notice. Will chomps down the breadsticks then finishes up the last slice of Lasagna. He tosses the empty container in the trash.
“That really hit the spot. How are you making out?”
“Not good,” I say.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m between a rock and a hard place. There’s nothing for me here, but there’s nothing for me anywhere else either. I don’t know what to do.”
“My commander always used to say, ‘When you hit a brick wall, blast through it.’”
“Good advice for a soldier. But what about me?”
“He also used to say, ‘If you’re out of options, make some.’”
“There’s no use. There’s nothing I can do.”
“There’s never nothing you cannot do.”
Will thinks for a moment.
“The other day, you told me the dean said your report was lacking proof. Said it was based entirely on speculation. Am I right?”
“I presented papers supporting my theories,” I say, defending myself. “That’s legitimate science.”
“It may well be,” he says. “But it’s not the same as proof. Those scientific reports were created by another scientist for different purposes. The evidence you attempted to use was just coincidental. Hardly convincing to a hostile audience.”
I’m amazed at his depth of understanding. He rolled it off his tongue so fluidly, I had to believe it was something he picked up in the military.
“What do you suggest?” I ask, desperately seeking a solution.
“You need to get your own proof. Then you would have solid evidence that no one could discredit. They would have no choice but to believe you. If they tried to smear you, it would be them that look foolish.”
“What you say is correct. But I would need sample
s, and a laboratory to analyze them in. That’s all been taken away from me.”
“If you’re out of options, make some,” he says.
“Where would I get samples around here? I’d have to be near farmland. There’s no farmland around here. And even if there was, it would all be frozen. I couldn’t do a thing for at least six months.”
“Who says it has to be around here?”
“Sure, I could do a field trip. But an extended field trip, one that could take a year or more, requires funds. That’s what university grants are for. Who’s going to give me a grant?”
“So you move, to where the evidence is.”
“You mean relocate?”
“Didn’t you say there was a professor in Florida? You used her paper or something? I remember you telling me that.”
“Yes, Jessica Parker.”
“For what you need to do, Florida’s perfect this time of year.”
“It may be. But I still need resources.”
“If she’s a professor, then she has resources. Give her a call, you never know.”
Suddenly the task didn’t seem as formidable. Will was right; there are other options out there. I just have to find them.
“Will, you’re a genius.”
He cracks a smile and I detect a slight blush.
“I wouldn’t say that. But I have learned how to survive in this mixed up crazy world. I’ve had to do that all my life. You either learn... or die.”
Will’s logic was unarguable. I make up my mind to call her, Dr. Jessica Parker, of Florida University, and find out if there is any way I can schedule time at her laboratory. It’s a long shot, but if it has a one-percent chance of success it’s worth the call.
“Thanks Will,” I say, then give him a peck on the cheek. He recoils in surprise, then grins from ear to ear.
“Got to go now. I’ll let you know what happens.”
I rush back to my apartment to call Dr. Parker. It’s Thursday already and I don’t have much time. Around the holidays, all universities pretty much run on the same schedule and on Friday afternoon the university would close. If Dr. Parker’s schedule ended early, and she decided to leave, I would have no way to contact her for at least a couple of weeks. I couldn’t wait that long.
I dial her office number; it rings... and rings... and rings.
“Oh please, somebody be there,” I plead.
Finally, an answer, a male voice.
“May I speak with Dr. Parker,” I ask.
“Who’s calling.”
“My name is Indigo Wells.”
“Do you have business with her?”
“Actually, I’m a PhD candidate and I’m interested in the work Dr. Parker is doing.”
“I’ll transfer you to the lab,” he says.
What luck, she’s still in town, I think.
A female voice answers the phone.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Parker.”
“Yes, hello,” I say, my hand shaking slightly. “I’m a PhD candidate and I’ve been studying your work.”
“You mean someone is actually reading my stuff,” she quips, laughing.
“Oh yes, it was interesting. I was wondering; could you use an intern, to assist you in your research?”
“Well, actually yes.”
I feel a sense of exhilaration.
She continues: “I’ve been asking for one for over a year, but unfortunately there’s nothing in the budget. I’m sorry.”
“You wouldn’t have to pay me.”
“You have the means to support yourself?”
“I’m pretty versatile. I’m planning to get a part-time job.”
“How much time do you have available?” she asks.
“At least a year. I’m taking a leave-of-absence.”
“When can you come in for an interview?”
“When’s good for you?”
“I’ll be hanging around here a couple more days. Do you think you could come in Wednesday?”
Wednesday? That would give me less than a week to get there, drive all the way to Florida. And what if there were delays?
“Sure,” I answer, not wanting to sound unappreciative.
“That gives us time to get the formalities out of the way and hit the ground running at the beginning of the term.”
“Sounds good.”
“Okay, take this down, here’s the address... ”
I couldn’t believe this was happening. She was actually giving me a chance. I would be working with a renowned microbiologist who not only shares my interests, but my philosophy as well.
“Did you get all that?” she asks.
“Yes. Wednesday, in the lab, on Orlando Avenue.”
“Wonderful. One more thing. On the university website, there’s a standard job application. Would you fill it out? It’s just a formality, but I have to do it. Make sure you enter my name as supervisor. That way I can give you a reference for Human Resources.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Okay then, see you on Wednesday,” she says.
“Wednesday it is, and thanks. Goodbye.”
I hang up the phone and fill out the form as she asked. As I click on the “SEND” button, reality hits me; I have only five days to move to Florida, a state I have never been to, for a job that doesn’t pay. What was I thinking?
Okay, maybe I don’t have to actually move to Florida. I could leave all my stuff here and just go live in Florida for a year or so. But then I would have to pay double rent and still pay for the heat and utilities up here. No, that wouldn’t work. I look around my apartment. Most of the furniture was second hand, acquired from thrift stores. I had owned it for almost the entire ten years I was enrolled here and it was beginning to show its age. It would be pointless to move it, probably cost more than what it was worth. An open house, that’s what I would do. I would post a notice on the many bulletin boards around town offering the furniture for sale. Then I could travel light and start out new. The plan was coming together.
I feel myself getting excited and that was making me hungry. I whip up a quick meal of my own special burritos then throw in a couple extra for Will. He wouldn’t be eating until much later, when the restaurants give out the left-over food, so I knew he would be hungry. I was planning to visit him anyway, to let him know the good news. So why not just bring him something? It would save him the trouble of drifting from restaurant to restaurant, late at night, seeking out the ones with enough leftovers to provide for all the homeless people in the area. I wolf down my meal, then pack the two extra burritos into a plastic bag. I add a handful of tortilla chips just to round out the meal. I can’t wait to see him, tell him the news. I grab my coat and, in seconds, I’m out the door.
It’s dark now. Clear ice is starting to form on the sidewalks from the thin layer of water left behind by the melting snow. I proceed with caution. A sprained ankle or broken leg that has disabled many an unsuspecting pedestrian would be a disaster if that happened now. My plan would be in shambles. I pass through the black-iron gates and head for my friend Ben. The campus is largely deserted at this hour. It’s not as cold as last night, but cold enough that the only people out are the ones that have something important to attend to. Many of the classrooms in the red-brick colonial buildings are illuminated, unusual at this time of the evening, presumably from the rescheduled finals that were cancelled due to the massive snow storm.
And there is Will, lying on his bench, inside his sleeping bag, covered by a blanket, just like always.
“Hi Will.”
Will sits up.
“Look what I brought you,” I say, showing him the plastic bag with the burritos.
Will takes the bag, hastily opens it, smells the aroma.
“You know, I’m getting a little worried,” he says.
“Worried? About what?”
“Well, when a girl starts cooking for a fella on a regular basis, I got to wonder, is she up to something? Not that I don’t appreciate it.”
; “Oh Will, you’re such a comedian. But I do need a favor.”
“Then I’m right.”
“You’re right, but not in the way you think.”
Will gobbles down the burritos nonchalantly, but it’s obvious I’ve got his attention. Every few seconds he looks up, in anticipation of the next thing I have to say.
“You know Will, you and I are alike in many ways, don’t you think?”
“I can think of a lot of ways we aren’t alike,” he answers.
“Both of us, at one time, were at the top of our game. But now we’re social outcasts trying to get back on our feet. Is that a fair assessment?”
“Go on.”
“And don’t we both want the same thing, a decent job?”
“You could say that.”
“And the reason we can’t get the job we want is because society has thrown artificial barriers in our path.”
“A fair assessment,” he says.
“So if society isn’t going to help us, the only thing left is to help ourselves.”
“I can see the part about you helping me, but somehow it doesn’t quite work the other way around.”
“But it does. I took your advice and called Dr. Parker at the University of Florida and—”
“She gave you a job,” he blurts out.
“Not yet. She wants to interview me first.”
“That’s great. When are you going?”
“I have to be there Wednesday.”
“Oh, I thought you were going to say like tomorrow. There’s plenty of time.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“What’s complicated about jumping on a plane and flying to Florida?”
“I’m driving to Florida, to live... and I want you to go with me.”
“Me? How did I become part of your plans?” he asks.
“Think about it. There’s nothing here for either one of us. I have no family, and the only family you have are the pigeons.”
“Don’t be knocking my family.”
“I’m not knocking them. They’re a fine family. But they can make out on their own. You’ve got to think about your own future. What kind of a future would you have if you stayed here?”
