professional, hired by the university, could advertise my work to potential backers. I wanted to walk in my lab and work, walk in my classroom and teach— not hustle for bucks.
One night before I left Cambridge, my mother telephoned.
“I can’t talk long, Mom — I’ve got a lot of writing to do on this manuscript. And I really haven’t analyzed my data.”
Mom was feeling terrible. She said she felt awkward bringing it up, but she’d been thinking about my “friendship” with Q and she wanted me to know that if her relationship with him caused me any anxiety, she’d end it.
I asked her if she was suggesting that I had a thing going with him.
“I’m not implying anything, Esme. He seems to think you might be feeling a little displaced.”
This pissed me off. I remember throwing down the novel I’d been r eading instead of rewriting my manuscript for my last publication as a postdoc. It was Charles Baxter’s First Light, one of my all-time favorites, and it pissed me off even more that the book lost pages as it slid across the floor.
“Well, that’s certainly fucking arrogant.”
“Esme ...”
“Mom. There’s nothing between Q and me, except scholarly respect. All on my part, of course. To him, I’m just a grunt, a slavey. If you’re attracted to him, that’s great. I’ve never been, I swear. I don’t know, Mom, have you looked really closely at his ears ?”
So then I had to face him, had to go in to his office and have it out with him. All this time, I’d been avoiding him, making excuses, exiting the lab when he arrived.
I knocked at his door, then pushed it open. He was startled to see me, and he struggled to get up from his overstuffed chair. He began wheezing and barking, rearing way back — he had a lot to say, it seemed.
I held up my hand. “I am not in love with you.”
I shrugged out of my knapsack, filled as usual with about forty pounds of Xeroxed journal papers, and I dropped it with a big thud on the floor. I went over to the window and looked out at the sunny quad. I’d rehearsed everything that I was going to say and I didn’t want to screw it up. I turned around and faced him.
“I am not in love with you, but I am suffering because of you. I couldn’t say why for a long time, and now I’ve finally figured it out. It’s not you and my mother, I find all that kind of charming. I figured out that what’s really disturbing me is the way you think.”
Q sat absolutely still, for once unblinking, unwheezing.
“Go on, please,” he said. His phone buzzed; he reached over and clicked a button that held all his calls.
“Not long ago you told me that this work may be too emotional for me. I didn’t understand what you meant. Now I do. I’ve always believed that science requires its practitioners be in a state of despair, informed despair. The problem with you is ...”
What energy one derives from defiance! It fueled my speech, it filled my body, till I felt I was taller, stronger. He watched me, growing before his eyes.
“Look, Q, the problem is — you are too fake-hopeful — that’s what screwed me up. You are full of this crap, this Romanticism of Science. We’re not just investigating the nature of matter, but saving people as well. Affecting culture, determining the Good. How did all this social enlightenment creep into the lab? That’s what I want to know. Did it come in with the big grant money, when molecular biology got so sexy?”
Q stood up, a little shakily, pushing at his glasses. He had a very long, fine-lipped mouth. He opened it, then closed it again.
Some students went by in the hall outside, laughing raucously, calling out to each other. For a second, the sun went behind a cloud, the room darkened, and all you could hear was their voices, calling. “Erik? Jackson! Erik? Come on, let’s go !”
I found this a good moment to pick up my knapsack.
“I just want to be able to think. You know, maybe I’m not made for this bench work after
One night before I left Cambridge, my mother telephoned.
“I can’t talk long, Mom — I’ve got a lot of writing to do on this manuscript. And I really haven’t analyzed my data.”
Mom was feeling terrible. She said she felt awkward bringing it up, but she’d been thinking about my “friendship” with Q and she wanted me to know that if her relationship with him caused me any anxiety, she’d end it.
I asked her if she was suggesting that I had a thing going with him.
“I’m not implying anything, Esme. He seems to think you might be feeling a little displaced.”
This pissed me off. I remember throwing down the novel I’d been r eading instead of rewriting my manuscript for my last publication as a postdoc. It was Charles Baxter’s First Light, one of my all-time favorites, and it pissed me off even more that the book lost pages as it slid across the floor.
“Well, that’s certainly fucking arrogant.”
“Esme ...”
“Mom. There’s nothing between Q and me, except scholarly respect. All on my part, of course. To him, I’m just a grunt, a slavey. If you’re attracted to him, that’s great. I’ve never been, I swear. I don’t know, Mom, have you looked really closely at his ears ?”
So then I had to face him, had to go in to his office and have it out with him. All this time, I’d been avoiding him, making excuses, exiting the lab when he arrived.
I knocked at his door, then pushed it open. He was startled to see me, and he struggled to get up from his overstuffed chair. He began wheezing and barking, rearing way back — he had a lot to say, it seemed.
I held up my hand. “I am not in love with you.”
I shrugged out of my knapsack, filled as usual with about forty pounds of Xeroxed journal papers, and I dropped it with a big thud on the floor. I went over to the window and looked out at the sunny quad. I’d rehearsed everything that I was going to say and I didn’t want to screw it up. I turned around and faced him.
“I am not in love with you, but I am suffering because of you. I couldn’t say why for a long time, and now I’ve finally figured it out. It’s not you and my mother, I find all that kind of charming. I figured out that what’s really disturbing me is the way you think.”
Q sat absolutely still, for once unblinking, unwheezing.
“Go on, please,” he said. His phone buzzed; he reached over and clicked a button that held all his calls.
“Not long ago you told me that this work may be too emotional for me. I didn’t understand what you meant. Now I do. I’ve always believed that science requires its practitioners be in a state of despair, informed despair. The problem with you is ...”
What energy one derives from defiance! It fueled my speech, it filled my body, till I felt I was taller, stronger. He watched me, growing before his eyes.
“Look, Q, the problem is — you are too fake-hopeful — that’s what screwed me up. You are full of this crap, this Romanticism of Science. We’re not just investigating the nature of matter, but saving people as well. Affecting culture, determining the Good. How did all this social enlightenment creep into the lab? That’s what I want to know. Did it come in with the big grant money, when molecular biology got so sexy?”
Q stood up, a little shakily, pushing at his glasses. He had a very long, fine-lipped mouth. He opened it, then closed it again.
Some students went by in the hall outside, laughing raucously, calling out to each other. For a second, the sun went behind a cloud, the room darkened, and all you could hear was their voices, calling. “Erik? Jackson! Erik? Come on, let’s go !”
I found this a good moment to pick up my knapsack.
“I just want to be able to think. You know, maybe I’m not made for this bench work after
Similar Books
