ISleepInADrawer.com

The Seventh

I went downtown to Pike Place Market late this afternoon, intending to buy some flowers to leave at the entrance to Zach's office. The sunflowers seemed especially gorgeous in the afternoon sun's rays. I asked for a half dozen (one for each victim). Since she was anxious to get rid of flowers that would spoil after another day, she threw in a seventh for free.

I put the six down in front of the main entrance, at the edge of a large pile of flowers, candles, and cards. Six: one for each gunshot victim. I paused and looked around me; it was the beginning of evening rush hour. Around me, professionals emptied their officebuildings, talking on their mobiles, contemplating the length of evening commutes. Others entered their condos and apartment buildings. A handful would exit one office and enter an apartment building right next door. A few looked at the impromptu shrine as they passed; fewer still stopped to leave a note, or flowers of their own. Two men stopped to take snapshots. A little girl, obviously learning to read, sounded out the words of a note left by a little boy, left on a large posterboard and written in his best third-grade penmanship.

I thought of myself in the third grade, writing in my best third-grade penmanship, and looked down at the flower. I thought of what Zach said to me on the telephone Friday ("I wasn't hit... I'm fine...") and exhaled heavily, thinking just how far I've come since my best third-grade penmanship... how far Zach's come since his best third-grade penmanship. Who would think that he, once writing in his best thrid-grade penmanship, would grow up to be a man who, one day, would have to call his boyfriend to say, "I wasn't hit... I'm fine..."?

I gave Zach the seventh. It seemed only appropriate.

He, in turn, came back with me to his offices (where-he-works, where-he-wasn't-hit), and placed the seventh on the ground.

The World is What We Make of It

I spent most of Friday revising a grant, genotyping fish, and thinking about a great post I'd been churning around in my head the past few days (concerning gay marriage in Washington).

Looking back, I'm amazed at how trivial all that is in comparison. You see, at around 4:15 yesterday afternoon, Zach rang the lab and asked to speak to me.

Someone had walked into his office and started shooting.

He'd been able to get out, uninjured. ("I wasn't hit... I'm fine...")

Since Belltown had been sealed off, my co-workers encouraged me to head home and wait. I spent hours there, wringing my hands, fielding a few phone calls from family and friends who'd watched the news and connected the dots, pacing, and watching the coverage myself, until Zach finally came home.

And now he's home.

Redemption

I don't know precisely why I'm persistently incapable of helping people in need - perhaps it's my general difficulties with language, or my alleged inability to understand what life is like in the "real world," or perhaps I'm just generally so alienated from my fellow humans that it's difficult for me (trapped in lead boots) to help someone else swim up for air - I don't know why. But, this morning, I was reminded simply that I can't seem to help.

I was reading while on the bus to work. To get to lab, I must take a bus to a pseudo-neighborhood between the Space Needle and Lake Union, a decent-sized lake in the middle of the city, a bit north of downtown. Once I get off the bus, I walk across South Lake Union (yeah, apparently that's a neighborhood) to lab. There's not a very direct bus route I can take - this is the best I've been able to figure out without switching buses halfway through (and I hate switching bus routes).

I generally rise early and get to lab before "rush hour," so the buses are usually virtually empty, as was the case this morning. There were only six or seven passengers on board, so I chose an empty row and began to read. As we sped down the Aurora highway (very little traffic at 6:55AM anyway), I dove into a particularly interesting chapter, and therefore didn't notice anything out of the ordinary until my nostrils noticed a particularly musky smell coming from the seat next to me. I pulled my nose out of my book and turned to find that a woman who had been sitting in the front of the bus had walked back and sat down next to me. Next to me - in the virtually-empty bus.

I'd realized that she'd started speaking almost immediately, while I'd been reading my book and only beginning to contemplate her musky, but not offensive, odor. I'd say she was in her early 50s, shorter than me, clutching her handbag with tension, and speaking so softly that I had to draw my good ear closer to her. She drew back a little, but I was pretty confident, despite the fact that she was facing the seat in front of me, that she actually intended to address me.

Her English was broken, thick with accents I couldn't begin to pinpoint.

"Does this bus... to downtown?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Mercer... does this bus... to downtown?"
"Are you asking me if this bus goes downtown?"
"Yes, to go downtown..."

I obsess over the names and boundaries of Seattle neighborhoods. Yesterday, while having coffee with a friend, our discussion of grocery stores quickly evolved into an intricate debate concerning the boundaries between Lower Queen Anne and Upper Queen Anne. I proudly announced that I've "always" lived in Wallingford, only to discover a little over a year ago that, technically, I now live in Fremont. Many a poor, unfortunate soul have also heard me lament that I don't know "whether I work in South Lake Union or Eastlake!"

So, you can imagine that I have a very literal, structured idea of where "downtown" Seattle is. I realize, however, that probably no other human being shares my obsession with Seattle neighborhoods... so, while I'll easily use such partitions in my own life, I'm very hesitant to force these geographic restrictions on others.

Particularly strangers on the bus who don't know much about Seattle.

"So, you want to get downtown?"
"Yes... this bus go?"
"Uh, no. Well... no, not really.
"Oh no. I need downtown."
"Well, this'll get you close. It goes to Seattle Center."
"Yes, this Seattle."
"No, no. Not Seattle. It goes to Seattle Center. Where the Space Needle is."

At this point, I thought it'd be a good idea to stick my right arm up to represent the Space Needle. I've no idea why I thought this was a good idea.

"To downtown?"
"No, this bus stops at the Space Needle. Do you know the Space Needle?"
"No... downtown."
"I know you need to go downtown. But, you could go to the Space Needle, and then catch another bus downtown."

I, at this point, was also getting frustrated because my definition of downtown, while precise, is also quite large. Many buses go downtown, and they all go to different parts of downtown. At this point, most likely confused about my Space Needle/Seattle Center spiel, she tried a new approach.

"Fairview... and Mercer?"
"Excuse me?"
"Fairview and Mercer. You know?"
"Yeah, I know that intersection."

I know that intersection because it's very close to work. Did she want to go there? "Oh, shit," I thought. "She's on the wrong side of the lake."

"Fairview and Mercer. Do you know this?"
"Yes. Very well, in fact. Do you need to go there?"
"No, downtown."
"So, you need to go downtown, but not to Fairview Avenue and Mercer Street, right?"
"You know Fairview and Mercer?"
"Yes, but you want to go downtown, right?"
"You know Fairview and Mercer?"

At this point, I noticed the measured panic in her eyes. Her face was lined - a persistent worrier, I thought - much like me. Years of a furrowed brow and shaking head and, sure enough, your face will freeze that way. I thought of myself in 25 years or so: will my brow look so tense?

She summoned the courage to look directly at me as she continued her desperate inquiries. When she spoke, the musky scent became stronger - her breath, no doubt, was the source of that rustic fragrance. The rest of her body had an unaugmented scent. That is, she smelled like one who washes, but doesn't bother augmenting her natural scent with deodorants or perfumes. I suddenly felt conscious of (and embarrassed by) the generous douse of cologne I apply each morning.

"Ma'am, do you want to get to Fairview and Mercer? 'Cause I'm going there. But, it's a bit of a walk. I think you got on the wrong bus."
"Can I get to 70?"

It took us a few moments of number exchange to cement whether she was telling me "seventy" or "seventeen." I know both bus routes, and both go along different sides of the lake.

"70?"
"Yes, can I get to 70 for downtown? You show me?"

"Oh, shit," I thought again. "She's completely on the wrong side of the lake." It's easy to do. I began to ponder how she, probably in the University District, was given some hastened directions, and mistakenly boarded the 74. I knew the driver of this bus - he probably just nodded at her mumblings (assuming she'd made inquiries as she boarded) and made sure she paid her full fare - not the most helpful driver in King County Metro, but he runs on time.

"Show me 70?"
"You'll have to walk across South Lake Union with me."
"This bus here... not to downtown?..."
"No, it goes to the Space Needle."
"No, want downtown."
"Yes. You could take the 16 from the Space Needle and go downtown, though. Where do you need to go downtown?"
"No, to downtown."
"Yes, I know. But where downtown?!"
"You know Fairview and Mercer?"
"Is that where you need to go? Fairview and Mercer?"
"Downtown."
"Is your hotel at Fairview and Mercer?"
"70 to downtown?"

Her painted eyebrows were distracting. She was close enough now that I could see where the plucked hairs were growing back, black hairs defiantly against dark violet paint. I wanted to ask her why she painted her eyebrows on, but I also noticed my stop coming up.

"Take this bus to the Space Needle. Go ask the driver to make sure you get to the Space Needle, and then take the 16 downtown."
"60 to downtown?"
"No, 16. One-six. Take it downtown. You'll see the Space Needle after I get off the bus. It's a big tower... spire... sorta."

She looked monumentally confused. I kicked myself as I pulled the STOP chord.

"Come with me. I'm asking the driver for you."

She muddled up ahead of me and tried to pay the fare a second time. The driver waved her away. I turned to address him as my fellow passengers scowled at me.

"She needs to get downtown. What's the best way from here?"

She decided to chime in: "70 to downtown? This bus no go?"

"No, we don't go downtown."
"Fairview and Mercer?... You know?..."
"Is this where you're trying to go?" I begged, cutting in. "Are you trying to get to Fairview and Mercer?"

The driver rolled his eyes. The woman went on.

"No, downtown. But, you know Fairview?"

The driver grumbled, "Just have her catch the 5 right here."

I coaxed her off the bus.

"Stay here until the number 5 bus comes. Tell the driver you want to go downtown."
"Downtown?"
"No, you're not there yet. This isn't downtown."
"Downtown?"
"Wait for the 5."
"Here?"
"Yes, it will come here. When you get on, tell the driver to take you downtown."
"Thank you."
"So, you don't need Fairview and Mercer? I'm totally going there now and could show you, but you'd need to walk with me for ten minutes or so."
"No, downtown. Fairview and Mercer?"
"Look, just wait here for the 5, okay?"
"Thank you."

I walked away, leaving her brow as furrowed as ever. "I just gave her a few more wrinkles," I thought as I navigated the pedestrian underpass. Should I have taken her with me? Why was she asking me about Fairview and Mercer? There are hotels near there, making me wonder if she was really trying to get there, and was thinking that was really "downtown." (I'd place it more in the Eastlake/South Lake Union/Cascade neighborhood collision.)

With each step, uncertainty and guilt mounted. Did I just send this woman, obviously lost, on a wild goose chase? What else could I have done to help her? I floundered, nearly turning back in a few places, thinking it'd be best to go back and bring her with me. But, by then, I was navigating between flocks of geese in South Lake Union. "Too late," I figured. She was probably on a 5 by now, either going to her destination ("downtown") or further from it ("You know Fairview and Mercer?"). A man about ten paces ahead of me was smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee as he walked. He was obviously going to the same place I was (there aren't many other employers in the area). He walked with confidence, brow furrowed in determination as he quickly finished one cigarette, and fished out another (smoking isn't allowed anywhere on Hutch property since... you know... it's a cancer research facility). I imagined that he smelled like a mixture of cologne and nicotine.

I was tempted to catch up with him, introduce myself, and seek alleviation of my guilt... Seek redemption for the potential trouble I'd caused in trying to help her out... And perhaps a cigarette, too.

"So, do you think I did the right thing?" I'd ask, between puffs. "Should I have brought this woman with me and taken her to the intersection she said most often?"

"No," he'd say. "She persistently stated 'downtown' as her goal, and anyone familiar with this city knows that Fairview and Mercer are far from downtown. I'd say they're in Eastlake."

"Or Cascade," I'd add.

"Yeah," he'd say. "By the way, why is your brow so furrowed?"

Because I'm as lost - and helpless - as she is. I just didn't realize it until I neared Fairview Avenue.

Alone in a Crowd

You, the reader, could call it sheer stupidity. Zach and I would probably shift our heels uncomfortably and mumble something about "poor timing." Either way, though Seattle (and, for that matter, North America) is in the midst of a nasty heatwave (and our apartment lacks air conditioning), we both insisted on using the oven today. Zach just "had" to make a particular dish for dinner, and I just "had" to make my Arkansas chocolate-chip cookies. We're done now: the cookies are cooling down (though probably not by much in this furnace), and Zach is stirring uncomfortably in bed. Our apartment, though, has taken on the characteristics of a small furnace, promoting near-insomnia on Zach's part, and complete insominia for me.

Our oven adventures, aside from providing us with a wealth-of-cookies-that-we-shouldn't-eat-since-we're-both-gaining-weight, has also brought to head a behavior in us that has been slowly developing since the heat arrived several days ago and blanketed the city. At first, the heat didn't bother us that much. We both spent our days in air-conditioned comforts at our respective jobs... coming home in the evening to warmer-than-usual quarters was managable. The heat was still tolerable, and we went about our business, albeit with a small fan helping us stay comfortable at night.

The cat was the first one to withdraw. She began to loathe being held even more than usual, and now spends most of her time sleeping on the coldest portions of our cheap hardwood floor. Though, just to show us that she still cares, she's been bringing mice home to play with and present to us. Her latest meow says it all: "It's not you, pal. It's the heat." (What she really means: "Buy some f***ing air conditioning, you pathetic hippies.")

Today, however, was the tipping point for Zach and I. The hottest day yet, and no offices or labs with air conditioning. For some reason, we, without discussion, somehow decided as a couple to tough it out and stay home today. I can't fathom why at this point (just as I can't fathom why we both insisted on baking). Perhaps our nesting instincts were activated by the heat: we spent much of the day either cleaning or napping. But, in either case, we did much of it alone. Without words, without any decision made or dicussed, we separated ourselves - partitioned the apartment into temporary zones for each of us. The cat was involved as well. When Zach would enter the kitchen, I'd move to the bedroom to lie down, forcing the cat to relocate to the cold tile floors of the bathroom. My sudden need to use said bathroom would send the cat, grumpy and sullen, outdoors to the shaded patio.

We continued this precarious division of space well into the evening, when the heat from the oven sent Zach to bed early, with the cat and I left in the living room and kitchen - her spread out on the hardwood floors, and me baking in my underpants.

She makes it look so comfortable, that I'm tempted to try it myself.

Rules of Engagement

James: "I had a rule today that I tried to follow."
Zach: "Oh yeah. And what was that?"
James: "I tried to get through the day without mentioning our cat to anyone."
*pause*
Zach: "Kitty?"
James: "Yes, Kitty."
Zach: "Uh, do you mention her often?"
James: "Sometimes. And I'm pretty sure it's annoying to others when I do. I don't want to be one of those freaky 'cat people', where that's all I talk about."
Zach: "I'm sure that's not the case."
James: "I don't know. You know I'm not really good at talking to people about stuff that's interesting to them. Besides, aren't you annoyed when we talk about her?"
Zach: "No. Kitty's fun."
James: "Well, I tried to get through the day without mentioning her."
Zach: "Well, good for you."
*pause*
Zach: "Wait, you 'tried'?"
James: "Yeah... lasted 'til almost 4:00PM."
Zach: "Who'd you finally mention it to?"
James: "Amy and Eric. We were just talking and... it... it just happened. It just... well, it just... fell out!"
Zach: "What'd you tell them?"
James: "Not much. I just started with how she woke us up at 3:00AM because she tried to jump from the window to the bed, but got her leg caught in the Venetian blind cord and fell--and then how we were all confused because we'd just been woken up and didn't know what the hell had happened--and then how I'd gotten up and tried to untangle her from the chord, but she panicked, and then I panicked--and then how you had to untangle her, but you didn't have your glasses on and it took a long time--and then how we calmed her down and tried to go back to sleep, but I kept laughing because I suddenly thought the whole thing was funny."
Zach: "Oh."
James: "And then how last night she kept meowing and we didn't know why--and then how she tried to spray on the carpet and I tossed her outside because I didn't want the den to smell like cat pee--and then how we talked about how she probably doesn't like to use the litter box because she wants to spray outside all the time."
Zach: "Uh..."
James: "And then about how she's so vocal--and also how-"
Zach: "Wait. All this just 'fell out'?"
*pause*
James: "Well, yeah."
*pause*
James: "Well... I... uh... It was like Moses in the Bible... when he comes down from Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments, only to find that Aaron and the Israelites had, in his absence, used the gold and jewels the Egyptians had given them (after the Tenth Plague and Passover to get them to leave Egypt faster) and melted them all down to make two golden calves to worship. And Moses got so pissed that he smashed the stone tablets, and then had to go back up the mountain to get them again. You know... I'm sure Moses didn't mean to break them. It's just that, once he started, he couldn't stop. It just sorta..."
Zach: "...fell out?"
James: "Exactly!"
Zach: "Uh, just like you talking about the cat?"
James: "Well... yeah!"
*pause*
Zach: "Were they upset?"
James: "Who, the Israelites? I'm sure some of them were. I'm willing to bet that at least some weren't too happy about the Golden Calves-"
Zach: "No. I meant Amy and Eric. Were they pissed that you talked about kitty?"
James: "Oh... Well, now that you mention it, I'm sure they'll never speak to me again."
*pause*
Zach: "Heh. Lucky them."

Caged

And to think, up until this point, I'd merely found Guinea Pigs interesting because they, like us, can't synthesize Vitamin C.

The Blockade

Zach kept this thought to himself until Saturday morning, when we were both back at home, exhausted physically and mentailly, thrusting our painful bodies in bed to fall, finally, to sleep. He at first said it half-heartedly and then, once the pregnant silence following this utterance let us absorb the sheer genius of his off-handed analysis, he repeated it:

"You know, this trip was doomed from the beginning."

I resigned: "Indeed."

Saturday, we continued this long embrace of superstition, repeating the findings of the previous night: "Yes, that trip was indeed doomed from the beginning." We, at that point, felt safe in using the past tense. After all, some twenty-one hours after leaving Seattle, we were back home, and still a bit shell-shocked. Our situation, we determined, had improved. After all, for one thing, our oh-so-primate desires for fundamental shelter (a nice cave to sleep in, so to speak) had been fulfilled, though at the expense of seeing a friend marry and taking part in the celebration of the legal creation of an already wonderous couple.

Zach's suspicions of a doomed voyage form Seattle to the Oregon side of the Columbia river gorge began early Friday afternoon. Car packed, we stopped by an ATM on the way to the interstate, only to discover, to my horror, that my ATM card essentially shut down. Since the very thought of finances usually births a bounty of tension headaches, to say the least, I insisted on visiting the nearest bank and sorting the whole matter out. The sorting-out didn't take long (a relatively minor matter that, despite its minorness, necessitated the freezing of my debit card... which, actually, reassures me: I'd rather have a paranoid bank than a lax one); but, five minutes later, when we were stuck on the interstate moving one-foot-per-second, the traffic plus the bank incident, in retrospect, placed a cloud over the journey.

Due to a variety of stupid-driver accidents, the early-afternoon traffic in Puget Sound was unusually frustrating. But, we remained relaxed for the most part: hotel reservations in hand, we knew we had time to reach our destination in a rural stretch east of Portland. In fact, if time permitted, we planned to first spend the evening in Portland eating at a Lebanese restaurant I love and briefly browsing Powells, the world's greatest bookstore.

As it turns out, after passing Olympia, we were able to get to the Oregon border with little difficulty, albeit just in time for evening rush hour. Since Zach has the better car, we were nestled in his Saturn, with me secure in my role as navigator. Zach, however, has little patience for bumper-to-bumper city traffic. Honestly, I can't blame him. We both grew up in, and learned to drive in, a rural metropolis where the worst "traffic jams" spanned the Mississippi (one notable exception, Zach tells me, was the day a new Krispy Kreme doughnut shop opened, where officers were called in to direct traffic for the first few days). So, while we were both frustrated both in Puget Sound and Portland with the status of the highway traffic, our personal frustrations were manifested as different demons. While Zach's anger is rather quick, broad, and superficial, mine is slow, targeted, and deliberate. His white-hot rage peaked and faded by the time we crossed the Willamette River. Mine barely began by the time we finally teetered off the interestate, and parked near the Lebanese restaurant... thus, my timing needs work.

Dinner and Powell's calmed me down. Whatever ominous cloud had followed us from the ATM incident had apparently dissipated. Though, presciently I felt the need to indulge in a Turkish coffee for dessert... something that would keep me awake for hours on end.

Late in the evening, we drove far east of Portland to our hotel, which turned out to be at an elaborate truck stop. With the final check-in time at midnight, I confidently strode up to the desk. But, the clerk had a jaw-dropper of an announcement for me:

"Oh, I'm sorry. We can't help you. Even though we do online reservations like this, we don't really DO online reservations."

Though I've read 1984 several times, I'm not familiar with Orwellian-speak. I ran through the words in my head, as truckers with phone-in reservations pushed me aside to receive their rooms: "You take online reservations, but don't honor them?..." Since Zach, with his fast-and-furious rage, was waiting in the car, the desk clerk went about her life without being mauled. With the hotel full, and the clock rapidly approaching 10:00PM, I stumbled, shocked and impotent, to the car to face Zach, and his temper.

He wasn't mad at me. Not at all. But, I heard every insult, volleyed at the absent desk clerk and the hotel chain. Had it not been so late, with hotel rooms filling rapidly in the darkest recesses of our imaginations, I believe he would've entered the offending hotel and completed the task that I, delayed in my raging, had not even contemplated. Rapidly tiring behind the wheel, we slowly began to panic. Our confidence and assurance of an evening dwelling for the next two days, after all, had just been shattered. Crammed in a small vehicle, shrouded in the night of rural Oregon, among unfamiliar surroundings with no friends nearby, our primal instinct for shelter, a fundamental need, took over. A quick scan of a few guidebooks and map indicated that the route east was devoid of hotels, while the route west back towards Portland offered more promise. We split our deeds: I called hotel after hotel on our route, while Zach drove, cursing all the way, from hotel-to-hotel, tracing our steps back west to Portland. He'd stop, run in, hear that there were no rooms available, and come back out, fists clenched in a rage fuelled by our inability to find that core necessity: shelter.

It's odd, in retrospect, to contemplate the evolution of our anger. Zach's frustration plateaued and, by the time we reached Portland, slowly declined. Though it was nearly 11:00PM by the time we reached the city, he'd already contemplated our eventual course of action: returning to Seattle. The catalyst for this seemingly rash decision stemmed from what I'd recently heard from several hotel managers in the Portland area: most hotels before this evening had already been booked due to "the baseball conference."

I loved the careful choice of articles consistently used by all five hotel managers and desk clerks who informed me of the room-booking event. Not a baseball conference, but the baseball conference! Heroic implications notwithstanding, I was unimpressed. For one thing, organized sports (let alone a CONVENTION about organized sports) are more foreign to me than women. For another, I had a hard time believing that the penultimate conference on baseball (thus, in my mind, deserving the definitive article "the") just happened to be taking place in the very city on the very weekend that Zach and I happened to have been screwed out of a reserved room because, "...even though we do online reservations like this, we don't really DO online reservations." Combined with the summer vacationing crowd, and the fact that it was so late in the evening (and nearly morning), all the hotels we came upon were booked, and all the hotel rooms I rang were booked.

Since my mobile only retains the last ten outgoing calls, I don't have a precise tally of the number of hotels we rang and, since our primate-panicked brains apparently don't retain facts that well, neither Zach nor I can recall the precise number of hotels we consulted by car, we can only guess at the dozens of establishments we visited. One hotel near the Lloyd Convention Center had an available Presidential Suite for Friday night only, but, as the title "Presidential Suite" might suggest, one night alone was going to consume an uncomfortable portion of my monthly graduate stipend. Officially Saturday morning at this point, I numbly rejected the Presidential Suite. A quick scan of phone books and guide books revealed that we'd covered most hotels in the Portland area, and on east towards the wedding locale.

At this point, my belated rage began. Far from the hotel that was the initial trigger of the injustice, I found trouble targeting my anger... and soon found myself flogging my own hide. I was the one, after all, who made the reservation, and made the apparently-unreasonable assumption that an establishment which permits online reservations would honor online reservations. I was also the one who, confident of our reservation and the hotel's late check-in time, suggested spending the evening in Portland before settling down for the night. Zach, his frustration now a distant memory, attempted to soothe my measured, misdirected rage, assuring me that, from all perspectives, I did nothing wrong. Even now, far after the fact, I'm still not entirely convinced. There were other steps I could've taken to ensure us shelter. For another complex reason, I could not contact the bride or groom that night to tell them our predicament, or the only other wedding guest I knew; in retrospect, however, I could have taken simple steps to permit such contacts. Yet, here I sat, three hours from my home, and the necessary contact information, well past midnight, with no reasonable option for shelter.

Slowly, Zach distracted my anger enough for us to discuss what to do. He was now profoundly tired, and the 24-hour gas station we'd stopped to refuel at had both double-charged him for a tank of gas and had only two-day-old coffee to wake him up. He coldly forced rectification of the former and rejected the latter. His white-hot rage reignited for at least a few moments, we now reversed roles, as I numbly attempted to calm him down. At the same time, I slowly evaluated our situation: emotionally and physically exhausted, Zach would soon be of no use. I was riding on Turkish coffee and frustration, though anticipating that I'd soon crash myself, and would need to find an all-night diner at which to refuel and wake up. But, what beyond that? Every hotel we could find was booked for both nights! Our options, I felt, were down to two reasonable courses:
1. head home
2. continue to search for hotels with vacancies.

I at first opted to combine the two appraches - turn north and cross into Washington, towards home, but continue to search for hotels. Zach, with his temporary second wind, was back at the wheel. But, with both of us irritable and groggy, and the persistent sighting of one "No Vacancy" sign after another, hit our morale hard. While Zach's instincts had already shifted in that direction, mine finally joined him: home. Head home. We quit stopping at hotels, and continued on the road north to Puget Sound.

Soon, Zach and I switched places and I, more alert than he, drove the rest of the route. With each mile, however, shame set in - I'd failed, and given up. I couldn't secure shelter for us, and we were left tucking tail between our legs. I began to contemplate how I, after the fact, would look at this situation. Zach, in between tense naps, mumbled, "Someday, we'll laugh at this..." as we came within first sight of the Seattle skyline. But, my shame continued to grow... how would I explain this to the groom? My co-workers? My friends? My family? In essence, after all, our trip was summarized thus: Zach and James went to Oregon, couldn't find a place to sleep, and had to run back home. Sure, the details might make it seem slightly less shameful, but, at the core, the situation unfolded as pathetically as it sounds to you, the reader.

By the time we reached home (to a grateful cat, I might add), and Zach stumbled to bed with his shoes on, my soul found a new way of punishing me: the mental shame evaporated, and returned as physical insomnia. I sat up awhile after both Zach and the cat were snoring, and Zach had delivered his "doomed from the beinning" verdict, finally passing out due to sleep-deprivation.

It was the least restful rest I can recall.

"Indeed."

Rings and Things

Zach and I have been drugging the cat the past few days with steroids to prevent an asthma attack while we're out of town this weekend. One of my classmates is getting married, and we're off to the wedding in Oregon.

As usual, I'm torn when it comes to marriage... I gawk awkwardly, filled with envy, at the ease in which couples settle into the institution. I'm persistently left, usually after several glasses of champagne at the reception, close to a tantrum, wanting to know why I can't have such support from society. Don't misunderstand: I've been very happy and proud of the couples I've known who have tied the knot (and been fool enough to invite this bumbling creature to the ceremony)... but, at the same time, also a bit sad that something similar is, at best, years away for me.

On the other hand, at least in our current situation, Zach and I can have these sorts of conversations several times a week:

Zach: "Where's kitty?"
James: "She's hiding. She doesn't like you."
Zach: "Why?"
James: "You scare her."
Zach: "Look who's talking."
James: "Freak."
Zach: "Quit talkin' to yourself."
James: "Seriously, is that the best you can come up with? Does it disappoint you to aim so high and yet persistently fall far short of the mark?"
Zach: "Whatever. I want a divorce."
pause
James: "Ha! I win! You can't divorce what you can't marry!"
Zach: "Damn."
pause
Zach: "I found kitty! Let's give her tummy rubs."

She hates tummy rubs.

So, she should love our absence this weekend.

Off to Oregon... with, luckily, time to spare to stop here and buy some (useless) books about cat behavior!

The Mediterranean Diet

Population geneticists should swoon: a supermajority of my gene pool hails from the British Isles. Only a few rumors to the contrary float around: the possibility of a Cherokee great-great grandmother here... or a Choctaw progenitor there... and, of course, there's the recently-celebrated revelation that a purportedly French ancestor of mine fought on the winning side of the Battle of Hastings. But, those minor points aside, I'm white and Welsh all the way, baby.

(And English, Scottish, and Irish too... probably.)

I bring this up to remind you, the reader (or, for those of you who have been lucky enough to escape a face-to-face meeting, to inform rather than remind) that I often tease my homogeneous roots. Rarely does a day pass when I don't catch myself blaming my "poor Welsh alleles" [as a budding geneticist, I of course could not make the obvious blunder of saying "genes"] on something as mundane as
1. my pale skin
2. my pudgy stomach
3. my lack of coordination.

Of course, before death threats from Cardiff roll in, I should also remind/inform you, the reader, that such trenchant (yet soft) statements from me are a roundabout (and psychologically twisted) means of conveying affection. If you don't believe me, as Zach. He, above all others, is subjected to caustic volleys several times each day before breakfast. I've actually great pride in my "poor Welsh alleles," since they have heretofore also contributed significantly to an opportunity to obtain a Ph.D. in molecular biology, among other notable milestones. (Also, the Welsh flag rocks.) Essentially, I appreciate, acknowledge, and love through jest. (You should hear what I say about the cat.)

But, in a city that greatly values physical beauty, and occasionally dumped ankle-deep in a gay culture where one is encouraged to pump, tone, and tan an unwilling body (in vehement opposition to the mind, I might add), I often also cast my British/Irish derivations (particularly, again, the cool-flagged Welsh tracts of my chromosomes) as a jovial punching bag. Why don't I climb Mount Rainier annually? "Oh, the Welsh thing." Why aren't I tan? "Oh, it's this skin thing. My ma has it too. Probably the Welsh traits asserting themselves." You get the idea. As I can imagine my inbox filling with hate mail from the UK and Ireland as I type, let me assert three things:
1. Lacking the backbone to look my self-righteous opponent in the eye and denounce his/her stereotypical assumptions of me as "arrogant prehistoric rhetoric sprinkled with self-congratulatory condescension" [a.k.a. the ol' "Why aren't you like me?" preschool-era observation], I use my presumed Welsh heritage as a smokescreen... a way to avoid the most blindingly obvious answer: "I don't want to climb Mount Rainier."
2. My Welsh derivations, unlike the Hastings connection, are largely assumed, not proven.
3. The Welsh are hot.

But, even when I'm not plagued with inquiries concerning my pale, flabby body, my disinterest in mountain biking, or my inability to dance, I also use my considerably homogenous ancestry as a punching bag for my body's graceless stumbling from mid-20s to what-lies-ahead. Specifically, aging, and all its joys. As one of the oldest people in my graduate class, a classmate once remarked, "You look it." This is a far cry from college, when I was mistaken for a high schooler. It seems my youthful looks were abruptly dumped somewhere around age 23, and replaced by grey hairs, creaking neck, portruding waistline, and a generally surly disposition. When I once bemoaned this unfortunate turn of events to a friend of mine of predominantly Greek heritage, he went for the Jugular: "Well, of course! You're a man of British ancestry raised predominantly on Southern guilt and a Midwestern diet. That'd put me in my grave pretty quick."

I balked at his sincerety, but he went on: "It's all about the Mediterranean diet, man. That'll put hair on your chest and keep you out of the grave a bit longer."

I feigned intelligence, smiling and nodding while my brain furiously churned: Mediterranean diet?! What the f*** is that?!

It didn't take long to learn that even a rumored Cherokee great-great grandmother could deliver the sacred blessings of Mediterranean alleles, and no amount of lovingly-prepared fried okra and beer biscuits could overcome olive oil and red wine.

Slowly, my Welsh brain digested this new dataset. Surely I, even if only piecemeal, could tackle something as simple as olive oil and red wine, eh?

Oh, if only. But, it appears my Welsh alleles pop up everywhere:
1. I'll omit the disaster of the olive oil pancakes for now, as Zach still harbors resentment for that train wreck.
2. "Jim, I don't think eating a pound of olives for dinner counts as 'following the Mediterranean diet'."
3. Red wine has so far given me a splitting headache.

Perhaps my Welsh alleles are rejecting Mediterranean influx.

James: "Well, at least I still love white wine."
Zach: "Jim, I don't think white wine has the same therapeutic effects of red wine."
James: "Sh*t."

Indeed.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Months after the fact, I'm still amazed that I was able to do it. And not just do it, but do it without realizing I'd even done it.

"It" started shortly after spring quarter began. Several days into classes and my final lab rotation, I spent the entire day in lab, learning the ins and outs of working with a mammalian cell line (a first for me). I naïvely made my way home, thinking I'd have a relaxing dinner with Zach, casually do some homework for class, and get to bed around 10:00PM. Upon going home and browsing the syllabus for a single class, however, I quickly realized that I wasn't going to sleep that night. Well, that's not entirely true. I could sleep a little, if I radically shifted a few patterns in my pattern-loving existence.

The next night unfolded in a similar fashion. And the night after that. My somewhat cavalier and arrogant entrance into the quarter ("Hey, this is already my third quarter of graduate school... I know the drill by now!") gave way to a rather pathetic ejaculation of "get-this-done-by-the-seat-of-my-pants." Rock Bottom (or at least the first glimpses of it) came about two weeks into the quarter, when I gave quite possibly the worst presentation of my adult life to a room of twenty brainiacs. Figuratively decapitated both during the presentation and afterwards by a few peers, I spent some time mulling over my sobering future: the powers-that-be unanimously and persistently state that "this is the easy part." If I'm barely hanging on at this point, how can I hope to take the next step, the step after that, and so forth?

Of course, I wasn't able to mull quite as much as I would've liked. My 24-hour cycles were crammed with a new pattern: lots of reading and writing, a handful of sleep, and up at 5:45AM to get to lab. Zach and I would casually pass in the wind: I'd wake him when I left for the day (as he would still be asleep), and wake him again when I'd get home (he would've fallen asleep already). At school and in lab, I scheduled meetings with other graduate students and faculty I'd come to trust and admire, and solicited advice: "Can I do this?" I was usually surprised by the consistently contradictory answer: "Yes, you idiot." Apparently, they said, I overreact easily and need to CALM DOWN. By then, though, I'd done what I, above, expressed surprise at: in the interests of a few hours of sleep each night, I cut myself off from the outside world. No phone calls, no e-mail, no posting. I would occasionally listen to news on the radio, and Zach would occasionally ring me during the day to make sure I hadn't fled to Switzerland and changed my identity.

I should stop at this point and state clearly that I do not in any way mean that you, the reader, should be impressed that I've apparently made it through a most challenging and soul-twisting period in my education. For one thing, as the powers-that-be keep telling me, this isn't the "hard" part - that's the rest of graduate school. For another, I'm not some genius worthy of worship: just some guy who fooled some school into taking him on. And finally, most of my complaints of suffering and isolation were probably brought on by my own frustrating ability to overreact and generally blow things out of proportion. As Zach can testify, for example, I once sought to portray a hangnail as a natural disaster on par with Exxon Valdez. My cat's first asthma attack, for reference, was somewhere in the neighborhood of the Good Friday Earthquake.

I was humbled by graduate school in the spring quarter. Humbled to the extent that I ate and slept little, worked probably more than I needed to, and doubted myself and my abilities to such an extent as to cast myself as an antithesis to Job's faith in God. But, suddenly, as the quarter began to draw to a close, Things began to calm down. My work load in classes shifted to something more managable, my final rotation project began to take shape, and I was left with teh decision of joining a thesis lab. Still a bit shaken up (and sleep-deprived), I explored my options and, to my complete surprise, found two faculty members who actually wanted me to join their labs. I had a Sally Field moment: "You mean you like me?! Even after my seat-of-the-pants performance over the past ten weeks?! Didn't you hear about my horrible presentation in Immunity?!"

Apparently, I fretted over nothing. Time and again, I was lectured: "Yes, the things you worried about were important, to an extent. But, from this point on, it's what you learn that matters: what you put into it, and what you get out of it. It's all your own choice."

So, I've chosen: I'll study this-and-that, but also go home and night to spend time with Zach. I'll teach next year, but also take vacations. I'll write grants, but also read books. I'll attend seminars, but also re-establish contact with the outside world.

I'll live, but not at the expense of my life.