Chapter 4

I probably wasn’t driving as carefully as I should have, since I was daydreaming about all the things I did to her and would like to do to her, but I did get home safely. There was just enough energy to get undressed and fall onto the mattress.

The alarm woke me rudely, and forced me out of the bed where I could have happily spent a couple more hours. A quick shower and coffee and cereal, then back in the car to drive to work.

In the lab, as I hung up my coat, I found a hungover-looking Frank Wisowicz nursing a cardboard container of coffee. He looked at me, bleary-eyed, and said, “How can you look so human? It’s not fair.”

“I didn’t drink as much as you, Frank. Don’t blame me.”

“Where’d you go, anyway? Everyone was gone when we got back to the table.”

“You abandoned us to trade insults with Eden. We got bored and left.”

“Oh,” he said.

I checked my emails, but nothing urgent there, so I reviewed my lab notes and checked on my experiments to capture the new readings for the log.

Dr. Clark walked through the lab and glowered at everyone, but we all looked intent enough that he didn’t stop to chew someone out for laziness.

I wondered again about him and his need to be the single source of control and ideas. The lab was slowly turning into an unpleasant place and he’d start losing people soon to other research establishments if he wasn’t careful. His bosses were hands-off enough that they saw only what he reported to them. So he could control the narrative until enough people left that the progress stopped. But then it would be too late.

Still, not my problem, though I wish he’d lighten up a little and let us do our jobs as we were trained to do. I idly wondered if I should drug him and make that suggestion. That would probably make everyone’s lives a little easier.

At lunchtime, I said what the hell, and joined several others for a trip to a local TGIF, which was crowded and a little noisy, but nice to get out of the building for awhile. We were only a little late back to the lab and fortunately weren’t caught by Clark.

Around two, as I glanced at the clock I wondered if Liz Conway would be going down to the cafeteria for her break. She’d said she usually took it near her office, but I thought it worth a trip to the cafeteria to find out. I could always get a Danish if she wasn’t there.

I grabbed the latest issue of Advances In Microbiology from my desk and wandered toward the cafeteria, where I got a coffee and a piece of apple pie, then found a table. I browsed the journal while I nibbled absentmindedly at the pie.

“Do you guys ever stop studying?”

I jumped a little, since the voice was right at my shoulder and I hadn’t heard her approach.

“You startled me, I was wrapped up in this article. Wait, you asked a question, what was it?”

“I said, ‘Do you guys ever stop studying?’”

“No, not really. Science changes so fast that you have to be constantly learning new things. Are you thinking about giving up the glamorous world of executive assistant-ing to become a scientist?”

She laughed at that. “No, maybe in my next life. Something to look forward to.”

“Are you on your way back to rescue the helpless Mr. Schwartz, or can you sit for a few minutes?”

“Let him sink a little deeper in the quicksand while I have coffee. It’ll be good for his character.” And she sat down.

Today she was wearing a straight grey executive skirt, knee-length, and a white blouse that took all my self-control to keep from staring at because it strained enticingly and made me uncomfortable. I forced myself to keep my eyes above her neckline.

I smiled at her while I took another sip of coffee. I cleared my throat, and said, “May I ask you something that might be none of my business?”

She raised an eyebrow over her coffee cup, then nodded.

“You’re obviously really good at what you do. Why do you keep working for that waste of space, Schwartz? You could be making a real contribution somewhere.”

She giggled, and said, “That isn’t at all what I thought you were going to ask me. But to answer your question, as much of an idiot as Schwartz is, he’s the least troublesome person of his -- rank, I guess you’d call it -- his rank, to work for here. I’ve transferred at least twice from other executives after some encounters that required the intervention of Human Resources. You can probably imagine the circumstances.”

“Oh. Sorry. It never occurred to me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay. We -- women, that is -- mostly learn to deal with it, though it does get tedious when men at that level suddenly think themselves irresistible because they’re highly paid executives. Someone should break the news to them, but that’s not going to happen. Anyway, what’s new with you?”

“Can’t say much of anything is new. That’s not how science works. Think of us like old-time explorers, on expeditions to unknown places, and it’s mostly weeks or months of plodding through the jungle or the dessert or the mountains before you see anything worth telling people about. Long periods of boredom and tedium, followed by very brief intervals of elation and satisfaction when you find something new.”

“Why do you do it, then?”

“Because some of us are built so we’re not suited to do anything else. This is exciting for us, looking for that elusive breakthrough that might change the world, or at worst, get us a better paying job.”

She laughed again. “I admire you, Sam, you’re doing just what you want to do. Not many people get to do that in their life.”

“Thanks. I’ll take whatever praise I can get. Sometimes I do wonder, though, whether this was the right choice. No, ignore that, that’s just me bitching about a bad day at work. Mostly the work days are okay.”

I took the last piece of pie on my fork and chewed it, then asked her, “And you, Liz? Is this what you want to do? Is this what you planned on doing when you were growing up?”

She looked at me for a few moments. “No, it’s not, but the salary and benefits are good and it pays the bills while I work on what I like doing.”

She didn’t say any more, and I thought that maybe she didn’t want me to ask, so I said nothing, just finished my coffee. I took a napkin from the dispenser and wiped my lips, then looked at her.

“I want to be a writer,” she said. “Fiction. I really like writing.”

I waited a few beats while I looked at her. I said, “I wouldn’t have guessed that about you, but now that you’ve said it, I can almost see it, the way that you catalog the people and experiences around you, filing them away.

“I’ll bet you’re a terrific writer, good at constructing detail in the same way that you’re good at your job. I admire people who can do that, conjure up these complicated worlds in their minds, then set them down on paper. I’d love to read a little of what you’ve written, when you get to a point that you think you’d like to share.”

She swallowed, and it was barely noticeable. “I’ve never done that, except when I’ve taken a writing class, and we had to read our short stories and essays in class. But it always left my heart in my throat when I did it, even though I knew the story was pretty good. So I don’t know, Sam. But I’ll think about it.”

She got up from the table. “I’m running a bit late. I’d better go. Nice to see you.”

She walked off, dropping her coffee cup off at the dish washing station. Smart woman, and sexy. Most guys only saw the body and the face -- and as I looked at her crossing the room with that butt wiggling under the tight, grey skirt I could almost understand them -- but she was smart and talented and insightful.

In the lab I was amazed to find that I was getting the surreptitious looks again. I should take some time to figure out how this gossip network functioned. It might be useful someday. But no one said anything directly.

One of my experiments was finished, so I took the final readings and summarized the results in an email report to Clark. My take on it was that it at least partially supported his pet theory, so he’d probably be happy. I made some notes to myself on the next experiment to be done, since it was too late to set up today.

By then it was pushing 5:00, so I did busy work until it was time to leave. I could see everyone else getting antsy, too, since it was Friday and the weekend beckoned. I expect everyone else had plans to look forward to, but I didn’t. Perhaps I’d do laundry and then celebrate with a beer. Good times.

Friday evening was as exciting as I anticipated. I got takeout and watched a Netflix movie, which barely held my attention. I did a little reading, then went to bed.

Saturday morning I woke up feeling guilty at my indolence. I should do something to pull myself out of the doldrums. I made a quick breakfast, then went down to the storage area in the basement, where all the tenants had a lockable storage closet for rarely-used items that we couldn’t stuff in our cramped apartments, and dug out my bicycle. I wiped the dust off, and oiled the chain, found my helmet, and headed out to the local bike path.

Within a few blocks I was already feeling how out of shape I was, but fortunately the bike path was mostly level. My breathing returned to normal and I was enjoying being out in the fresh air.

As I rode, I again started thinking about the still-unknown effects of my compound. The suggestibility component seemed to work as it was supposed to, but there was that odd amnesia effect -- and I really only had a couple of test subjects from which to extrapolate -- where they forget being dosed, and even forgot a few minutes before that. I didn’t understand that.

I had guessed from Ellen’s reaction that she did not remember my talking to her, “suggesting” things to her. I should check with Sara and see if she remembered us talking in the bar and what we said.

I also had no idea how long these “suggestions” remained in the subject’s mind. Did they fade away? Was the length of the suggestion’s influence related to the dosage administered? Who knows. I really needed to come up with a more methodical test plan that could determine these factors, but I was constrained by the inability to run a controlled laboratory test, and the fact that nobody could find out about this, ever.

I imagined someone outing me and the investigation that would follow. My name would become a verb, “to Halloran someone”, meaning to force them to do something unknowingly, by trickery or by chemical means. I shivered. I’d have to be careful.

From the other direction, a group of roller-bladers was approaching rapidly, apparently competing with each other to see who could reach the finish first. They were being a little reckless and aggressive, nudging each other as they tried to get in front of the pack.

I moved to the side and onto the grass to let them pass, but one of them pushed another who bumped into a cyclist ahead of me, sending them tumbling into a bush. I yelled, “Hey, jerk, aren’t you going to help them?”

Apparently the answer was no, because they didn’t even slow down. They were gone behind me in seconds. I pulled off the path and went over to help the cyclist get up.

“Are you okay? That was uncalled for. They were being assholes.”

The cyclist was struggling to their feet. They took off their helmet, and it was obvious that he was a she, with shoulder-length red hair. The gender was confirmed as she turned toward me, spitting out bits of grass and twigs and I could see her chest. She had some scratches on her arms and legs from the bush, but appeared to be otherwise unharmed.

“Fucking jerks. That’s not the first time they’ve done that. We’ve complained to the cops, but there are only a couple on bicycle patrol, and they’re hardly ever here. Anyway, thanks for stopping. I appreciate it.”

“Sure. I’d hope someone would do the same for me. Looks like you got scratched up some. I might have a first-aid kit in my bike bag, let me check. Oops, and it looks like your handlebars got messed up.”

I found my first-aid kit and handed it to her. She looked at her bike, leaning into the bush, and the handlebars were twisted on the fork tube so that she’d have to steer right in order to go straight. “Nuts. I don’t have my toolkit, either. I’ll have to walk it home.”

“Lemme see what I’ve got in the bag while you clean yourself up.” I rummaged in the bag and found some rusty tools, including a screwdriver and a multi-wrench for bikes. With a little trial and error I found something that would fit the headset nut. I managed to loosen it, then re-tighten it so it was straight again.

She had applied some disinfectant to her scratches, which were numerous enough that she looked like she had measles. I smiled at the thought, and she caught me.

“Am I funny looking now?” She was still a little pissed at the roller-bladers.

“Sorry, it’s not really funny. I was just thinking that it looks like you caught a case of the measles. Maybe that’ll keep the roller-bladers away.”

“That, or a spray can of Mace. Jerks. Sorry, I’m taking it out on you and I have no cause to. Listen, I may have had my fill of biking this morning. Can I buy you a cup of coffee to thank you for your help? I’m Annie, by the way.”

“I’m Sam, Annie, and sure, why not?”

She passed me the first-aid kit and I stowed everything back in its bag, we mounted up and she led me to a nearby over-priced gourmet coffee place where we could lock up our bikes outside. Fortunately, I actually remembered the combination of the lock and chain wrapped around the seat post.

With bikes safely stored, we found a table and I got an Americano which tasted like it had sat for far too long in the carafe, and she got a Cappuccino and a cookie.

“So, what do you do when you’re not repairing bicycles, Sam?”

We traded bits of biographical data back and forth. She was a programmer at a local company, but biking was her hobby. She often did long overnight bike trips on the weekends, but not this one, which is why she was on the bike path today.

And then it got a little strange. “I should have been more aware of my surroundings, especially since I’d encountered those blade jerks before. They’ve laid claim to the bike path as their personal race course, so I should have seen them before they got there, but I was wrapped up in my personal issues, telling myself again how pissed off I was at my boyfriend.

“That’s why I’m here and not on a bike trip, because he’s on it and I didn’t want to hear him tell me again that I’m not committed enough, that I’m not working hard enough at my bike training. I’d had enough and said that I’d pulled a muscle and I wasn’t going to take a chance on damaging it further. He thought I should have ‘worked through the pain’, like it was a badge of honor.”

“Ouch. That’s serious commitment, some might say an obsession. It would be hard to find a partner who had the exact same level of obsession and wasn’t willing to allow for some flexibility.”

“Yeah, obsession is the right word. He gave up working as an accountant to become a bike messenger. That was so he could do some kind of training every day. That’s the hallmark of an obsession. I think I’m done. I’ll have the conversation when he gets back Sunday night.”

“His loss. But I suppose he’ll have his bike to console him.”

“Yeah, I hope they’re very happy together. It’ll be a mixed marriage, and maybe they’ll have offspring, and raise two and a half tricycles.” I smiled at that.

“You do anything besides coding and cycling, Annie?”

“Haven’t had much time for other things since I joined the local Obsessive Cyclists chapter, but before that I liked to read and cook, go to the occasional movie or play or concert. I’ll have to try those things again and see if I remember how to do them.”

“I’m sure it’s just like riding a bicycle; you never forget how.”

She threw a wadded-up paper napkin at me, but she smiled. Some people just don’t like puns.

“I have an idea, Sam. No time like the present to find out. What do you say to me cooking dinner for you? In full disclosure, you won’t know if I’m still any good at it until I’ve served it, so there’s always the chance of food poisoning if I’ve forgotten the basics.”

“I’m sure it will be fine, and a definite improvement on my own attempts at cooking. That would be wonderful. When do you have in mind?”

“You doing anything tonight?”

I wasn’t, obviously, so we agreed on a time and she wrote down her address. She went off to buy groceries, and I rode a little more, then went home, showered and read until it was time to go. On the way out, I paused and went back for the aerosol bottle. Just in case.

It was a fairly short drive to her apartment building, and I found a legal parking spot, too. On the way, I had stopped and bought what I hoped was a decent bottle of wine, which I carried in a plastic bag. She buzzed me up and I found the door half open. I knocked and she shouted, “In the kitchen. C’mon in.”

I found her busy dashing between stove, refrigerator and oven. “Good, you made it,” she said, “I was afraid you’d stand me up and I’d have to eat all this myself.”

“And pass on a free meal? Not a chance. Smells good, I’m reasonably certain you haven’t lost your touch.”

She looked quite different here at home. On the bike path, in her racing gear and helmet, she looked like an athlete, driven, muscular. In her home environment, she was a very different person. The hair was the same, perhaps a little shinier and curlier, maybe from the shower, but in her summer dress she looked way more curvy.

I thought maybe that the racing outfit was designed to lower the rider’s profile, making it less curvy to reduce wind resistance. But now I saw there were definitely boobs there, more than a little.

“Sam, I should have asked you if you were allergic to anything, or if you had any dietary restrictions, so I took a chance on something fairly innocuous. It’s chicken parm with pasta, and a salad.”

“That’s fine,” I said, “one of my favorites, in fact.”

“Good. Once I got into the rhythm of cooking, most of the skills came back. What’s that you’re holding?”

“Oh. I brought wine, the old standby dinner invitation gift.”

“Just as well. Bobby -- that’s my soon-to-be-ex -- doesn’t approve of alcohol, says it interferes with the purity of the cycling experience and throws off the body’s natural chemical balance. So any wine we might have had stored here has probably gone to vinegar.”

She opened the fridge and took out a salad bowl, saying, “Here. Put this on the table in the other room.”

I did that, and when I got back she had the chicken from the oven on a platter, and handed me a bowl of pasta to carry.

I opened the bottle of wine and she found a couple of wine glasses. I filled them, and I toasted, “To obsession, and its loss.”

“Hear, hear,” she said as she took a sip. “Pretty good. Sit, let’s eat.”

So we did. She had set the small table so that we were actually sitting fairly close to each other, and our feet and arms occasionally brushed each other in a natural way. I thought she was getting just a bit giggly, maybe because she and Bobby had abstained from alcohol for so long.

She was talking quite easily now, very friendly, and I thought that I detected something more than neighborly repayment of a debt in her attention.