back in—at least that’s what I’ve inferred from my time in the Meijer checkout line, staring (mindlessly, I swear) at People ’s Sexiest Men Alive. And all that sweating will make you live longer, at least according to know-it-all scientists like us. That is what you want, isn’t it, Arthur? There have been a few times when I wondered. But we don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to tell me. We’re not talking about me right now, we’re talking about you . I told Paula once how we used to say that all the time, how it was a punch line to all our kidding around. It was just an aside, related to some story I was telling about work, but as soon as I said it, I knew I’d said it a little too casually and that I’d just given something away. Paula was staring at me, and then she did a little whistle. “Hooo brother,” she said. “What?” I demanded. “You know what,” she said. “Whatever you do, don’t order the chocolate cake here. It looks good, but it’s like chewing on a mouthful of potting soil.”
I digress. After my run-in with Kramer on Tuesday morning, I meant to go to the lab to start getting ready for a batch of Prasophyllum petilum I’m supposed to be getting in next week. Instead, I went to my office and started googling “Norell Ops.” I was scrolling down the list of results—I hadn’t had a chance to find out anything beyond the fact that Norell Ops is indeed a company that does indeed have a website—when my cell went off at full volume like a doomsday alarm, making me jump out of my chair. Two days ago Jack changed my ringtone to the Imperial March from Star Wars , and I haven’t been able to figure out how to change it back yet. He thinks it’s hilarious. I find the doom and gloom rather apropos.
It was Paula. “Are you near a TV?”
“Happily, no,” I said.
“Well, find one. You’re going to want to see this.”
“I’m not sure I do.” I glanced over at my laptop, at the steely blue and gray lettering on the screen. “This wouldn’t by any chance have anything to do with a company called Norell Ops, would it?”
“With what?” Paula said. “Turn it to CNN. They’re just getting started—are you going to watch or what?”
I threw open the door and started walking briskly down the hall, as close as I could to running without actually breaking stride, hoping not to draw attention to myself. I’m trying to stay under the radar these days, Arthur. The reason why I hardly mentioned Liam’s job, the reason why I didn’t tell anyone except you when Liam went up into space last April—it wasn’t that I was trying to keep it a big secret. It’s because the whole thing always felt like something I was making up. Like if you told people you were married to a lion tamer or a bounty hunter. What I mean is: it’s just not something many people do . People raise their eyebrows and lean in with another twenty follow-up questions. I got sick of it, that’s all.
And guess what? My painstaking cover has now been blown. The Michigan Daily , never so quick on the uptake, finally made the connection between Spaceco and UM’s associate botany professor “Jessica Fobisher.” Some student gumshoe posted the story online Thursday morning, and when I walked into the faculty meeting that afternoon everyone sitting at the table got quiet and turned around to size me up, with the exception of Thom, who shuffled his papers and cleared his throat uncomfortably. All I could do was take a seat and participate in the discussions that followed to the point of obnoxiousness, voting down the lab reassignments and bitching about the new purchase requisition forms for all I was worth. My hand was clenched around my phone in my pocket, and I was thumbing one furious, rapid-fire imaginary text to Liam after another.
That ancient POS TV is still in the staff lounge where someone stashed it. I didn’t know whether it could get any stations, but I
I digress. After my run-in with Kramer on Tuesday morning, I meant to go to the lab to start getting ready for a batch of Prasophyllum petilum I’m supposed to be getting in next week. Instead, I went to my office and started googling “Norell Ops.” I was scrolling down the list of results—I hadn’t had a chance to find out anything beyond the fact that Norell Ops is indeed a company that does indeed have a website—when my cell went off at full volume like a doomsday alarm, making me jump out of my chair. Two days ago Jack changed my ringtone to the Imperial March from Star Wars , and I haven’t been able to figure out how to change it back yet. He thinks it’s hilarious. I find the doom and gloom rather apropos.
It was Paula. “Are you near a TV?”
“Happily, no,” I said.
“Well, find one. You’re going to want to see this.”
“I’m not sure I do.” I glanced over at my laptop, at the steely blue and gray lettering on the screen. “This wouldn’t by any chance have anything to do with a company called Norell Ops, would it?”
“With what?” Paula said. “Turn it to CNN. They’re just getting started—are you going to watch or what?”
I threw open the door and started walking briskly down the hall, as close as I could to running without actually breaking stride, hoping not to draw attention to myself. I’m trying to stay under the radar these days, Arthur. The reason why I hardly mentioned Liam’s job, the reason why I didn’t tell anyone except you when Liam went up into space last April—it wasn’t that I was trying to keep it a big secret. It’s because the whole thing always felt like something I was making up. Like if you told people you were married to a lion tamer or a bounty hunter. What I mean is: it’s just not something many people do . People raise their eyebrows and lean in with another twenty follow-up questions. I got sick of it, that’s all.
And guess what? My painstaking cover has now been blown. The Michigan Daily , never so quick on the uptake, finally made the connection between Spaceco and UM’s associate botany professor “Jessica Fobisher.” Some student gumshoe posted the story online Thursday morning, and when I walked into the faculty meeting that afternoon everyone sitting at the table got quiet and turned around to size me up, with the exception of Thom, who shuffled his papers and cleared his throat uncomfortably. All I could do was take a seat and participate in the discussions that followed to the point of obnoxiousness, voting down the lab reassignments and bitching about the new purchase requisition forms for all I was worth. My hand was clenched around my phone in my pocket, and I was thumbing one furious, rapid-fire imaginary text to Liam after another.
That ancient POS TV is still in the staff lounge where someone stashed it. I didn’t know whether it could get any stations, but I
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