South Pole Station

by Ashley Shelby

“I like that you’re confident enough to joke with a new acquaintance about a sensitive topic. No, after traveling here a couple years ago, I simply lost my passion for my work in Brazil. I felt it best to hand off the research to my younger colleagues. I’m now studying the population here.”

  “I guess anybody who’d voluntarily come to South Pole is probably worth studying.”

  “Yes, it’s fertile ground,” Denise said. “The station population is most analogous to a penal institution—I mean, on a macro level. For a social scientist, it’s a dream. I have it all here—defended neighborhoods, degradation ceremonies, a chance to test the contact hypothesis.”

  “Examples?”

  Denise had allowed her glasses to slip, but she pushed them back up now, her face flushed with excitement. “Let’s see—defended neighborhoods, that’s easy: Beakers are not allowed in the fuel shed or power plant, except for one or two exceptions, while the Nailheads are only allowed near the scientific equipment when occupying narrowly prescribed roles, such as repair and logistical support. Degradation ceremonies would be something like the bag-drag for the Fingys, where they are forced to transport their own luggage to Summer Camp. It’s like a perp walk. Something to introduce the novitiate to a total institution and prepare them for external control.”

  “Christ,” Cooper said.

  “I know, intense stuff, right?” Denise said. “But I’m most interested in how the scientific community here is going to cope with the arrival of a climate change denialist.” She used her pen to scratch a spot on her scalp hidden by her prodigious brown curls. “Hmmm. I keep adopting the terminology of the dominant group. The more appropriate term here would be skeptic—climate change skeptic.” She pulled on one of her curls until it was perfectly straight, then released it. “Although that, too, is problematic. The scientists here would object to that term. I’m still trying to parse this one out. Anyway, let me know when I lapse into group jargon. It has the potential to affect my neutrality if I’m not careful, and I don’t want to go all Margaret Mead.”

  After Denise left, Cooper realized she’d worn her goggles the entire time they’d been talking, and Denise hadn’t batted an eye. She decided she liked Denise very much, and turned to her sketchpad with some optimism. She put on an Etta James CD to drown out the roar of the machines rumbling through the fuel arches downwind from her studio and picked up her pencil.

  * * *

  2003 October 28

  20:40

  To: Billie.Gosling@janusbooks.com

  From: cherrywaswaiting@hotmail.com

  Subject: Changing the subject line

  B.,

  What are you and the High Priest of Divination by Punctuation doing for Halloween? It’s apparently a big deal here. You are expected to wear a costume. Some people bring their costumes to Pole. Others just cobble something together. In other news, I got an eye infection and experienced the finest in frontier medicine. Drinking is an endurance sport, scientists included, who, by the way, are currently pitching a collective tantrum about a climate change denialist doing research here. The overall literary aesthetic can be summarized as Tom Robbins Rox. Haven’t heard from Mom or Dad yet. Write back. I’m told that after about three months down here, the letters and e-mails stop because loved ones forget you exist.

  C.

  p.s. Don’t ask me if/what I’m painting.

  * * *

  2003 October 29

  00:43

  To: cherrywaswaiting@hotmail.com

  From: Billie.Gosling@janusbooks.com

  Re: Changing the subject line

  C.,

  The High Priest of Divination by Punctuation and I have agreed to disagree about the semicolon and have moved on to dry humping on my loveseat. Afterwards he consented to letting me call him Phil. When I asked him what his plans were for Halloween, he indicated that he’d be honoring the ancient roots of the holiday with cocktails at the Minnesota NeoPaganist Society. Apparently, Minnesota is a hotbed for paganism—Phil referred to it as Paganistan, which I thought was in poor taste, considering our current military commitments. I had dinner with Dad on Sunday. He says he’ll write you a letter. He doesn’t “do” e-mail, which he believes is written E+MAIL, and which is also how he pronounces it. I choose not to correct him for obvious reasons.

  B.

  p.s. See, I didn’t ask you what/if you’re painting.

  * * *

  “And so she comes up to me—now keep in mind, I’m in a hostel in Cheech and I’m in boxers with one of those half-staff morning boners. Anyway, she asks me if I’ve heard of Larry McMurtry.”

  It had escaped Cooper’s notice that day on the bus in Denver that Floyd looked positively Minnesotan, with the kind of round, ruddy face you’d find in Sauk Centre or Fergus Falls. However, he had made it clear, loudly and often, that he was a proud Floridian, and this, it seemed to Cooper, explained a lot. As she took a seat at the far end of Floyd’s table with her lunch tray, she noticed his muttonchops looked even more unkempt than they had in Denver. His sleeve was pulled back just so, revealing a forearm tat of a woman straddling a power pole. Sparks emanating from her bare boobs suggested she was being electrocuted, but in a sexy way.

  The group of men sitting with Floyd didn’t seem overly interested in his soliloquy.

  “McMurtry, right? So, yeah, I cringe,” he continued, “but I say, sure, I’ve heard of him, but I’ve also heard of Zsa Zsa Gabor. What’s your point? Well, she says she’s reading one of his books. I say, ‘So?’ and she goes, ‘I think he won the Nobel prize for cowboy writing.’”

  Floyd let loose a huge belly laugh, but his friends continued eating in silence. “The Nobel prize for cowboy writing?” Floyd tried again.

  Finally, a skinny guy in a stained University of Oregon sweatshirt said, “I thought there was, like, only one big Nobel for writers. I didn’t know they had one for Westerns.”

  “Shut up, man,” Floyd said bitterly.

  “What did I say?”

  “Just stop talking.”

  Tucker quietly took a seat on the bench next to Floyd and waved Cooper over to join him. As she scooted her way down the bench, her plastic cup of Dr Pepper wobbled, then spilled the length of the table. Everyone burst into applause. Sheepishly, Cooper mopped up the spill with her napkin. Tucker watched but offered no help.

  Because everyone was still staring at her, Cooper decided to throw in her two cents about McMurtry. “I think Lonesome Dove actually won the Pulitzer,” she said, as she balled up the sodden napkin. She glanced over at the skinny guy, who now seemed unwilling to make eye contact with her. Tucker, too, avoided her eyes. She’d done something wrong, but she wasn’t sure what. She thought of Denise. Had she just trespassed into a “defended neighborhood”? Quietly, she added: “I’m just saying that’d kind of be like winning the Nobel prize for cowboy writing.”

  After an excruciating silence, Floyd extended his fish-white hand toward her. Cooper took it lightly—as she had anticipated, it was clammy and damp. “Hi, remember me? I’m Floyd. I’m important.” He dropped her hand. “First of all, nice of you to invite yourself into this conversation and offer a pearl necklace of wisdom. We’re always looking for fresh Fingy insight.”

  “Be nice, Floyd,” Tucker said, pushing his salad greens around his plate, but also, Cooper was annoyed to discover, stifling a smile.

  “This is me being nice,” Floyd replied stonily, turning away from Cooper.

  “And second?” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “You said, first, it was nice of me to insert myself into your conversation. I was just wondering what part two was.”

  “Part two is fuck off.”

  Floyd picked up his tray, followed by his friends, who quickly swallowed what was left of their food. At the dish pit, they dumped their plates into the sink simultaneously, sending waves of soapy water all over Pearl’s apron.

  “Come on, Floyd,” Pearl shouted, “be a person!”

  “Interesting,
” Tucker murmured, when the men had departed.

  “What’s interesting?” Cooper replied.

  “Just that people tend to treat the power plant manager with kid gloves,” Tucker said. “You know, because he’s in charge of keeping the heaters going and stuff.”

  “I had no idea Lonesome Dove was such a lightning rod.”

  “There are hidden sensitivities everywhere. They’re like land mines,” Tucker said. “Floyd’s basically a good guy. Basically being the operative word here. He’s under a lot of pressure with the construction of the new station, and sometimes he relieves his stress with poorly informed but weirdly elitist literary critiques of popular authors. Best to think of him as our resident Kim Jong-il: wildly unpredictable, with the power to annihilate his neighbors. Helps that Floyd looks a little like him.” He glanced over at Cooper and seemed relieved to find her grinning. “The eye looks better.”

  “Doc Carla told me even if antibiotics are past their expiration date, they can still work. But five years? I was doubtful.”

  “How’s the work going? Has inspiration struck yet?”

  Cooper quickly spooned a lump of the potato gratin into her mouth in order to avoid answering the question. Despite her hopeful start in the studio after meeting Denise, she had ended up with nothing. Nothing except a hasty sketch of the Terra Nova, which she’d begun out of desperation. Drawn from memory, it was a mess of flying jibs and mizzen sail, and it hadn’t been born of inspiration. It had been a product of a stubborn but useless memory.

  Sal sauntered over from the caf line and dropped his tray onto the table across from Cooper. “I miss tots, Tucker,” he said. “I want tater tots. Fancy potatoes aren’t my speed.” Then he looked over at Cooper as if he’d just now noticed her. “Oh, hey, it’s the strange person who won’t sign the petition. You’re the dancer, right?”

  “Painter,” Cooper replied.

  “I want to meet the dancer. Is she hot?” Cooper examined Sal the way she had examined the endless still lifes she’d had to paint in art school. He seemed haphazardly arranged, but there was some underlying cohesive structure that she had to tease out. His unwashed, dark auburn hair was boyish-looking, but she could tell he kept his hair longer than he might otherwise so that it would fall over his forehead and hide his slightly receding hairline. He had a nose that, as he aged, would widen and grow almost bulbous and become more visually interesting. His conversation, however, left much to be desired. It seemed as if he were only playing the role of the bro-dude, not living the life. Still, Cooper thought, there was no law that said an astrophysicist couldn’t have the personality of a bro-dude.

  “You don’t look like a Sal,” she said.

  “What do I look like?”

  “Brock? Josh? Colton?”

  “Keep it coming,” Sal replied.

  “Edison. Keegan. Chase.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Sal said, swallowing down a mouthful of gratin, “is that I look like the rush chair for Sigma Chi.”

  Decently handled, Cooper thought. The table next to them erupted in laughter, and a group of smart-looking guys, including the tall Russian scientist Cooper had met at McMurdo, got up and left en masse.

  “There’s gonna be a Beaker-Nailhead cage match before the winter’s over,” Sal said, watching the men file out.

  “No, cooler heads will prevail,” Tucker said soothingly.

  “I doubt it,” Sal replied. “Alek has the capacity to go Unabomber on people. It’s all that Marxist scientific determinism bullshit.” Cooper looked at the next table over; it was occupied by a crew of brawny men in various stages of male-pattern baldness. Seated at the head of the table was the Confederate-bandanna-wearing man—Bozer—who’d coined the “ass-joint” phrase that had already found its way into Pole’s lexicon. (“Stop being such an ass-joint, Chuck!”) Cooper longed to ask Tucker whether Bozer’s bandanna bothered him, but something told her to keep the question to herself.

  “It seems like the Nailheads rule the roost. I wonder if it’s the beards,” Cooper said.

  “Do the Nailheads draw their power from the beards or do their beards grow lush because the Nailhead is powerful?” Tucker mused.

  “Those beards are the result of several years of ice-time,” Sal said. “Nick over there—the guy in the Fleshgod Apocalypse T-shirt—this’ll be his fourth winter-over. His beard’s as old as that. Tuck, remember last year when he let that girl build a hanging fairy garden in it?”

  “Four seasons?” Cooper said, disbelieving.

  “No—four winter-overs. There’s a difference. If you winter-over, you’re here for the entire year, including the polar night. Six months of total isolation. No flights in, no flights out.”

  “Why would anyone do that four times?” Cooper asked.

  “You will know the answer to that question before you leave here,” Sal said. He stretched his arms over his head and interlaced his fingers, just as he’d done at fire school. “I need coffee.” He stood up and looked down at Cooper. “Want some?” Cooper shook her head no. Tucker headed over to the coffee tureens with Sal, and, as if on cue, Denise slid into his seat.

  “I’m having a ball watching Tucker claw his way from ascribed status to achieved status,” she half-whispered. “Speaking of him as the only man of color at Pole.”

  “What about all those guys from Hyderabad?”

  “They don’t count. There’s nothing like observing an American black man in an environment in which he’d not be expected.”

  Cooper thought it wise to change the subject. “What’s the word on this guy Sal?”

  Denise thought for a moment. “Sal Brennan. Scientist. Cosmology, I think. He’s a veteran—been here a few times before. I have heard he’s in the final year of a rather important experiment, though I don’t know the details.” Denise unfolded her napkin and carefully arranged it on her lap. “I’ll have to check my notes. The scientific staff seems to avoid me, so my knowledge of his background is meager. Oh, now this is interesting.”

  Cooper turned to follow Denise’s gaze, and saw two gaunt men walking through the galley toward the chow line. Both were draped in Swedish national flags, with cross-country skis on their shoulders, and the Polies they passed were slapping them on the backs and smiling. A VIDS staffer jogged after the skiers.

  “See,” Denise said, pulling out her notebook. “This is the kind of scenario I find fascinating. What benefit is VIDS protecting by denying visitors food?” As Denise scribbled, Cooper watched the Swedes carefully return the trays and listen politely as the admin explained to them why they couldn’t eat in the galley.

  “Who are they?”

  “They arrived at the station last night—Bozer said they’re skiing across the continent. They came straight from Vostok. The Russians apparently treated them like kings. VIDS is only letting them pitch their tent outside the Dome.” Cooper knew VIDS tried to keep tourists and adventurers away from the station—people were always trying to cross the continent by ski, by snowshoe, by fat-tire bike. One summer an ultra-marathoner made an attempt but went hypoxic three miles outside of McMurdo and had to be carried back on a snowmobile. People still talked shit about ultra-marathoners as a result.

  Denise and Cooper watched as the Swedes walked out of the galley with their gear. Out of the corner of her eye, Cooper saw Bozer approaching their table. When he arrived, he put his hands on Denise’s shoulders and began rubbing them.

  “Hey, chicklet,” he said.

  “Bozer,” Denise said warningly. “Don’t cross the boundary.” Cooper felt he’d already done that with the Confederate bandanna, but said nothing.

  “I’m Bozer,” he said to Cooper. “I’m sleeping with her.” For the first time, Cooper saw an expression of displeasure pass over Denise’s face.

  “Your lack of discretion is becoming a problem,” Denise said. Bozer discreetly laid his fat, crooked middle finger on the table between them, and wiggled it. Cooper tried not to laugh. “There is an unspoken c
ode of conduct here regarding relationships on the ice,” Denise said. “At least before winter starts.” She turned to address Bozer directly. “You don’t formally acknowledge the person in public. You don’t sit next to them at meals, and when a transgression takes place, you say ‘you’ve crossed a boundary.’ When you say that”—she peeled off Bozer’s left hand, which had migrated from the table back to her thin shoulder—“they’re supposed to stop touching you immediately.”

  “Okay, honey, but you know I don’t subscribe to that kind of bullshit,” Bozer said. “We all have an ice-wife, fuck buddy, whatever. What’s to hide? Other people get weird about that, but I’m an open book.”

  “Is ice-wife just another term for a hook-up?” Cooper asked.

  “So-called ice marriages aren’t necessarily commitments down here,” Denise said. “But the perceived permanency provides much-needed emotional support, particularly as the season grinds on.” She lowered her voice. “Some people in ice relationships even have spouses and families off the ice.”

  “You’re making it complicated, darling,” Bozer said. “Alls you gots to do is figure out who’s a dyke, who’s married, who’s open-married, who claims to have a boyfriend, and who wants continual action. Go from there.”

  “Typically these courtship rituals are kept offstage, à la Goffman,” Denise said. “In this social environment, and at this particular time in the institutional cycle, it’s important that this basic need be broadcast. You will see this change over the course of the season.”

  “So that’s how you guys got together?”

  “Repeat offender program,” Bozer said, gazing over Cooper’s head.

  “Bozer’s been on the ice nine times before this,” Denise said.

  “Nine times?”

  “There’s a quaint saying down here,” Denise said. “The person who coined it has been lost to history: ‘The first time is for the adventure, the second time is for the money, and the third time is because you don’t fit in anywhere else.’”

  “What’s the ninth time for?” Cooper asked, looking at Bozer. He returned her gaze, a scowl on his lips but amusement in his eyes; however, Tucker’s voice rang through the galley before he could answer her. “Hello, attention!” Tucker shouted between cupped hands. Everyone quieted down. “Fellow Polies, I regret that it’s come to this point so early in the season, but I need to make an announcement. Our fearless communications and logistics director, Dwight, has informed me that our GOES satellite link, which has been overburdened for a week, has just had an irreparable failure. Too much usage. His investigation leads him to believe that a few individuals are using up most of the bandwidth that is shared by the entire station.” Some people giggled. “I appreciate the fact that some of you need contact with the outside world in order to have contact with yourself, but it’s overloading the system. So, bottom line, get your porn on, but just not over GOES.”