The Methuselah Gene

by Jonathan Lowe

  “Hey, you said A and B equals God knows what. Reversals happen all the time with aberrant cells, from what I hear. Look at cancer. Isn’t that a genetic disease where cells that are supposed to die acquire immortality instead, and start multiplying?”

  “Right, the tumor cells develop morbid superpowers by genetic mutation, and somehow survive normal autodestruct mechanisms by manipulating their telomeres, the complexes of DNA and protein that protects the ends of each chromosome.”

  “Well, there you go. Why couldn’t your tree gene be made to manipulate these telomeres in such a way that people age faster than expected?”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To what purpose? Hell, to sell more cosmetics and cosmetic surgeries! And vitamin pills and pricey health foods. You’d become paranoid at age thirty instead of forty or fifty, when your friends start noticing your wrinkles, hair loss, and sagging jowls. Die off younger, and the government saves billions in Medicare, too, for everything from prescription drugs and walkers to the number of people in nursing homes. Young people wouldn’t have to pay as much in taxes to keep old duffs playing golf while busting Social Security. And you could take the drug yourself, buddy, instead of Elavil, Paxil, or Prozac, so you wouldn’t have to worry about being alone in your long, lonely golden years, obsessing about the best way to end your jittery, angst-ridden life.”

  “Thank God you’re not serious.”

  “Oh, but I am. True, it’d put a new slant on Anthony Robbins seminars, but think about how they could use it in the Third World to curb population growth.”

  “I’m not sure how that would work.”

  “Well, most wars are linked to overpopulation, right? Too many people, not enough food, land? Like on the West Bank, or in the Kasmir region. Got any idea what it’s like there these days in India? A billion Hindu people crowding the streets. Beggars, rickshaws, banana carts . . . scooters belching smoke everywhere. Seventy-two thousand people born every day. That’s the population of Australia every year, buddy. Malnutrition, disease, howling chaos in Delhi’s filthy shanty towns. Opposite of Japan’s problem, or ours. Those people don’t drive SUVs up to take-out windows to supersize everything on the menu, they just eat rice with fish heads while working the jobs we’ve lost to them by outsourcing. And their government can’t control their own growth any more than you could stop some development company from building a new tract of condos blocking your view of the ocean! So you mix whatever drug you develop from this up with the wheat we give’em, and maybe it’ll offset their women having six babies each. Works for African countries and Islamic countries, too. Maybe you’ll avert a future war . . . holy Jihad, another unholy skirmish for crude oil, or whatever.”

  I stared at the homeless man, asleep on the bench. “God, I don’t know which intention is worse for this theft,” I said. “But if either is in my future, maybe I should take your advice and end my ‘jittery, angst-ridden life’ right away.”

  Darryl chuckled, but stopped when I looked at him. We were quiet for a long time before he said, “How did your partner kill himself, by the way—with a gun?”

  “No,” I said, mimicking a gripping gesture with one hand, “he used a broken beer stein. You know, the kind with a handle? He busted it on his head, and sliced one wrist with it before he buried the shards in his neck.”

  Darryl stared at me for ten long seconds before speaking. “Holy horse shit. What was he, psychotic?”

  “Not before he stuck himself with that needle,” I replied. “Or someone else stuck him.”

  2

  My apartment was a mess. Nothing unusual there. Still, it was a familiar mess. One that hadn’t been recently tossed into a different jumble. Of that I was certain. Because if it had, I would have noticed more easily than if everything was tidy.

  I went through all my paperwork, methodically. Finding nothing important amid the notes I’d taken home, I started up my MacBook in frustration. As I prepared to enter my passcode, though, the screen showed a sad icon. I used an emergency CD to restart, only to discover that the MacBook’s hard drive contents had not been inadvertently lost by some electronic glitch, or even via some cataloguing error. It had been wiped. Destroyed. There was little doubt about it. That had to be it. And what else could do it but a—

  Virus.

  The word ballooned in my mind as I glimpsed the photo of Cindy, my internet ‘girlfriend.’ I’d printed out it. It lay next to the mouse. Boo. I stared at Cindyboo’s face—at the beautiful, symmetrical face with its high cheekbones behind perfect skin. That skin deep beauty hid what was actually only a thinly covered skull. And then I thought about Nikki, too. The unfortunate one night stand who’d stolen a jacket of mine, and. . .

  I snatched up the telephone and dialed.

  Darryl answered. “Hello?”

  I heard kitchen sounds in the background. A meal being prepared. Darryl’s wife Hannah singing happily in some far-off state of unattainable marital bliss.

  “It’s me,” I said. “Listen, Darryl—can you come over here? I think I’m in bigger trouble than I thought.”

  I strategically hung up before Darryl could answer, knowing he must have been hungry, having missed lunch due to loss of appetite. Almost unintentionally, then, I found myself getting a beer, turning on the TV, and finally slumping in my usual lounge chair. I drank mechanically while watching a horror movie I’d picked at random from one shelf before shoving it into the DVD player. Ironically, it was Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

  I was on my third beer when the knock at my door finally came.

  “You’re not planning to off yourself right away, are you, man?” Darryl asked with acerbic candor, stepping into the room. He looked around at my clutter—the scattered papers, and the week’s accumulation of dirty dishes. Then he gave a slight nod as if his suspicions about bachelorhood were confirmed. He followed the nod with a wry smile. “On second thought, maybe you should consider it.” He pointed at my beer. “Got one of them for me? And some chips, maybe?”

  I got Darryl a can of Michelob, and took the last one for myself. I poured out the remaining jumbo sized Fritos into the one clean bowl I had left. “There’s a girl I been talking to on the Internet,” I said, almost casually.

  Darryl snickered as I used remote to cut off the TV. Then he shook his head. “A girl on the net? Wake up and smell the French roast, buddy. I told you, you gotta break outta this jail, find a real woman, and get a life.”

  I studied him, coming to a decision. “I don’t mean that. I meant about the longevity gene. I mean I told her everything.”

  Darryl was suddenly aghast. “What have you been taking? PCP? Your ass is grass, man.”

  “I don’t mean the delivery mechanism, or what happened with Jim,” I insisted. “I didn’t tell her that. But now my notes on the computer, they’ve been wiped. Gone, just like at the office. An electronic virus got me, this time.”

  Darryl rubbed one eye with his free hand, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “What am I gonna do with you, Alan?” he asked, his voice sounding weary. “You keep classified information relating to your work on your home computer? Is that what you do here? What does Jeffers say about that?”

  “I live alone. And no one needs to know.”

  His face went blank for a moment. Then he slurped at his beer, and it reanimated him. “The hell you say. And did you also know that there are ways to read your hard drive when you’re online? Ever heard of electronic cookies? Information is stored all the time on your drive by websites, and by your ISP. They retrieve that information whenever you log on again. Hackers can get to you too, if they want to. They can read what you got, and you wouldn’t even know it.”

  “Most of it is encrypted, though.”

  “You mean was. You haven’t got it anymore, and they do . . . may as well have posted it on WikiLeaks, because if the hacker’s an ace, he’s deciphered your encryption already. Especially if you use DES or some commercially available encryption program.” Darryl
burped for emphasis. “So who’s this girl you mentioned?”

  I handed him the photo of Cindy, asserting defensively, “She doesn’t look like a hacker to me.”

  Darryl laughed. “I guess not. I’ve seen her on the cover of a dozen magazines, at least. One of those runway fashion models. Phony as a peroxide blond dating a plastic surgeon.”

  I took the photo back, and stared at it again. Numbly. The face that stared up at me did seem a bit familiar now. I felt a chill edge up my spine to radiate out to my arms. “Holy . . .”

  “Yeah. Holy in-your-lap horse dooty.” Darryl snatched the photo back, then balled and pitched it into the trash. Finally, he sat at my Mac. While munching greedily at the chips, he began to check a few things. After a few belches, he concluded, “One nasty bug, for sure. Almost as bad as your Satan bug. Can’t recover anything on here, bud. Backup?”

  “At work. Gone now. These were mostly notes. May have helped me. Doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

  Darryl nodded slowly. “Mattered to your supermodel, whoever she really is. Or he.”

  I winced at the thought, then told him about Nikki, my one-nighter. Darryl was skeptical about her existence, except in my dreams. But when I mentioned that she’d stolen cash from my wallet, he changed his tune.

  “What’d she look like?” he asked.

  “Never mind. More importantly, I’m wondering if she did this, somehow. That next morning I noticed that my computer had been moved slightly, like she’d tested its weight or bulk as a possible theft. But to access it here she’d need my code, and I don’t have that written down anywhere. Could she have hacked into it? Downloaded encrypted files, somehow, all without my hearing anything?”

  “Maybe she carried it somewhere else, like to a van on the street, then returned with it.”

  “No, that’s . . . that’s impossible.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m not even sure about the stupidity of politicians, anymore.”

  “Well, you’re right, it is unlikely. She wouldn’t have risked returning with it, after setting it up as a theft. Did you notice any blank media missing?”

  “No, but what if she brought her own memory stick, along with this virus?”

  Darryl nodded slowly. “Right.”

  I slumped into the nearest chair. “Listen to us. Conspiracy theories. God, I feel like Jesse Ventura, already.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you deserve that, Alan. What you got now? Constipation? You should take Colace or Duphalac for that. Maybe you shoulda taken Lomotil, too, for your diarrhea of the mouth.”

  “Stop kidding, and help me.”

  Darryl sighed. “I think you’re beyond help, at this point. Tell me, did this Nikki chick approach you, or you her?”

  “The former. Why?”

  “Bad news. And you say you were being followed?”

  “Yeah, I was. By a dark Toyota Land Cruiser. I think I saw it behind us earlier, near the park, too.”

  “Catch a peek at the driver, by chance?”

  “No. Windows tinted.”

  “Virginia plates?”

  “Who knows.”

  “Well, I know why someone thought you’d wanna brag about this, like when some nice looking lady actually smiles at you. Anyway, what else is a guy like you gonna talk about . . . marriage? Sports? Star Trek conventions?”

  “What’s that mean?” I said, glaring at him.

  Darryl lifted his hands defensively. “Hey, just sayin’ you got limited interests lately.” Darryl finished off his beer mechanically, shaking his head. “Better living through chemistry,” he concluded under his breath. Then he stared at a spot on the floor.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” After a moment of unfathomably deep thought he looked up. “So they canceled your project early because they suspected you’d be screwed with the FDA, is that what you’re telling me? That they knew your results before you laid them out, maybe from your assistant?”

  “I didn’t say that, but I suppose it’s possible. Still, it wasn’t Jim’s place to—”

  “God knows they don’t like negative publicity, with our stock so volatile.” Darryl cracked a knuckle, then another. “Putting two and two together, it looks like a coverup to me, and the theft a diversion to keep anyone from finding out how the formulation killed your lab assistant. That’s why you’re under wraps not to talk.”

  I coughed instead of what I wanted to do—which was to cry. Or to break something. Finally, I said, “Yeah, well, that’s your theory.”

  “Not possible?”

  I shook my head. “It’s criminal, is what it is.”

  Darryl started working the computer, using a CD from a file next to the external drive.

  “What are you doing now?” I asked, still a bit surprised by the depth of his cynicism.

  “You’re on AOL, right? I’ll reinstall it.”

  “Why? You wanna e-mail Winsdon, save your own ass while you can?”

  Darryl stopped for a second, then dismissed the idea. “I think we’re safe for the time being. I’m curious about who did this, if it’s not Tactar.”

  I watched from behind his shoulder as both the system software and then the AOL program were reinstalled. “You thinking your two and two might equal five, Einstein?”

  “Shut up and give me your password.”

  “Going Bald.”

  “That’s you, not me, buddy.”

  “No, that’s the passcode.”

  “Why not ‘Dumb Ass?’”

  “Cute.”

  Darryl entered the passcode, and got online at last. “Now what’s this girl’s screen name?”

  “Cindyboo.”

  “Cindyboo? As in Boo, I got you?” Darryl clucked his tongue, grunted, and then entered the name to prompt a profile. There was none. Next, he tried sending an e-mail to Cindyboo, and a pop-up now read: This is not an AOL member. He turned to me and shrugged. “Too late, she’s gone. You’re screwed, buddy.”

  “Great.” Stretching, I laced my hands behind my head, and stared up at the low ceiling, which seemed even lower now. I thought about the fame and fortune I might have come close to achieving, including possibly a red Porsche 911 Targa, the ultimate babe magnet. Then I gave a long sigh, back so soon to blaming of my luckless fate, the same old game. “So that’s it, huh. Now I’ll always wonder?”

  “Yup. Unless we hack into AOL records. Pentagon would be easier, though.”

  “That right? Figures.”

  “I may know someone who can help, though.”

  “Who? You mean a hacker?”

  Darryl reached forward to touch the screen with his index finger. He nodded to himself. Then he turned and winked at me. “I need a reason, though, bud. If you know what I mean.”

  “How about I’m a friend down on his luck.”

  “A lonely, luckless loser, yeah, but are you willing to pay?”

  “A hundred bucks.”

  “Make it two, plus two. That’s four, in case you’re wondering. And give me some time.”

  He got up to leave. I stared at him through a mind fog as he moved to the door. “Wait a minute—how much time?”

  “As long at it takes,” Darryl replied, without blinking, “to think this over.”

  3

  Darryl took a lot longer than I expected. It had taken a while for things to get back to normal, too. Clueless, the police filed away a report indicating suicide, and Jim Baxter’s body—after a full autopsy—was laid to rest at Woodlawn Cemetery, next to his brother Clovis, who’d been a Gulf War hero. Returning to my own routine proved impossible, however, considering the boring nature of my new work. Suffering from recurring nightmares featuring broken glass, I endured a quiet despair characterized by listlessness and an almost constant reassessment of my professional and personal life. Not knowing whether to take a vacation or just resign, I went through my outward motions in a state of limbo, but inside I was as conflicted as a rat in a maze, and just as lost. Then came the day I ran
into Darryl during lunch break, and everything changed because he gave me a target for my frustration.

  Except for the oversized Matisse reproduction and the high skylight, the Tactar plant cafeteria looked like a hospital cafeteria. White walls, linoleum floor, and a long stainless steel serving counter. The fare that day behind the hot glass display window consisted of meat loaf, liver and onions, mashed potatoes and gravy, and various veggies straight from cans into the warming trays, with a little salt and butter added for taste. I asked for filet mignon, medium well, and a nice bottle of 1938 Mouton Rothschild. That drew a laugh from big Dave Huckley, the chef and server—a usually morose man who once confided in me that he was taking Lipitor for his cholesterol, on prescription from his doctor, and not Tactar’s own Selecor.

  I was carrying my tray of ketchup-drenched meat loaf and green beans, complete with dinner roll and iced tea, toward one of the two dozen square tables that had been angled forty-five degrees in an obvious attempt to appear stylish. I was about to sit near Jeffers’ pretty secretary, Allison Chambers, when a dark hand slipped under my elbow and guided me toward the door that led out to the courtyard.

  “There’s a table out there,” Darryl informed me, with imperious solicitude. “Haven’t seen you in weeks, and you look like you could use some fresh air, too.”

  He chose one of the three empty wrought iron tables on the red flagstone courtyard outside. It was warmer outside than in the air-conditioned cafeteria, but the ambiance was nicer. Darryl sat opposite me with a bagged lunch, and loosened his cherry red tie. The tie’s embroidered cherries looked more like cherry bombs than real cherries.

  I began. “That tie, you—”

  “Never mind,” he interrupted, then glanced back at the window, beyond the potted Ficus, to see Allison Chambers and Bill Davis and several others looking in our direction, as if about to brave the early August heat and try for the two remaining tables. “Tell me who knew the most about your Satan bug besides you.”

  “What? I told you to stop calling it that.”