Chapter 4 Entropy #2
But it did get some buzz, because what Monica said is also true: the possible applications of my research are nearly infinite.
For my work, I got one of those Forbes STEM awards that only people not in STEM care about, and I was interviewed on a couple of podcasts downloaded by more than just the host’s extended family.
One of my Nature Physics articles was even featured on the cover.
The research groups at Northeastern started giving me covetous glances and stopped asking me to make coffee—only fair, since I don’t even drink it.
Cece got me a “Great women of science” T-shirt with my portrait sandwiched between Alice Ball’s and Ada Lovelace’s.
My parents . . . Well, my family didn’t react to any of it, because they were busy dealing with a tax audit or something.
But Dr. L., who’s family in any way that counts, patted me on the back, told me that I was the most promising theorist of my generation, and assured me that I’d have my pick of tenure-track positions out of grad school.
And any other time, it might have even been true.
But these times are unprecedented—hiring freezes, systematic defunding of higher education, adjunctification.
And a few weeks ago, when the Forbes journalist contacted me to do a “where are they now” follow-up story, I had to tell her that no, it wasn’t a mistake: I hadn’t published in months, my research had stalled, and I had not been able to get a cool job at a top institution.
In fact, I was lucky to find any job. Even one whose description is academia’s little bitch.
George the Chosen Experimentalist, though .
. . I have no idea what his claim to fame is, and he doesn’t ring any bells.
So I google the devil I know: Jack. He has a Wikipedia entry—I refuse to give it hits on principle—and a Google Scholar page—which I must click on, but do so while gagging.
I try not to notice how much I have to scroll down to get to the bottom of his publication list, mutter “Show-off,” then start combing through his coauthors.
I find a Gabriel. Gayle. Giovanni. Gunner (really?).
Georgina Sepulveda, a physics superstar whose work I’ve been stanning for years (I choose to think she collaborated with Jack under duress and donated all proceedings to the local animal shelter).
After a minute, I come across the elusive George—George Green.
He’s on two low-impact articles—both recent, both with Jack.
There’s next to no online trace of him, but he just finished his postdoc at Harvard and posts on physics subreddits under his real name.
“Seriously?” This guy’s being interviewed? Whatever strings Jack had to pull, I’m going to cut them one by one with my poultry shears. His mediocre love child doesn’t stand a chance—
My phone rings. I jolt and immediately pick up—Greg. Finally.
“Hey! I—”
“I need your help.”
I swallow a groan. “Hi, Mom.” I’ve made a lethal mistake.
“The situation is dire. You need to rein in your brothers.”
After two and a half decades of APE, I can safely state that the Elsie my mom wants is a droid.
She’s powerful, mobile, financially soluble.
She successfully quenched her earthly needs and lives in a state of perennial prosperity.
Her main purpose is to score prestige points when Aunt Minnie brags about her son who almost finished law school.
Her secondary purpose? To intervene when two idiots decide to embark on months-long feuds over stuff that, historically, has included:
who gets the front seat in the car
who deserves the piece of cake with the frosting bootie at Cousin Jenna’s baby shower
who’s taller (they are identical twins)
who’s more handsome (see above)
whose birth year, according to the Guinness World Records book, has more recorded python attacks (see above!)
who gets to pick the dog’s name (we never had pets)
This is a noncomprehensive list. Over the years, the feuds have become more rabid, Dad more absent, Mom more reliant on me for cleanups.
“You can’t be your family’s janitorial staff,” Cece tells me once a week, but I do my best to make Mom happy, even though of all the Elsies people want, hers is the fakest—and the one with deepest roots.
I have, after all, cursed my way into it, tirelessly and painstakingly.
“How are you, Mom—”
“Overwhelmed. Lucas and Lance are at it again. Almost came to fists after their soccer game.”
“Over the result?”
“Over Dana.”
I rub my temple. “They both agreed to stop dating her.”
“They did. But Dana needed a ride somewhere.”
“Who did she call?”
“Lucas. Lance slashed his tire. The neighbors are starting to talk. You need to stop them.”
“I did, Mom. Two weeks ago. A month ago. Three months ago.” I’ve been holding a series of conflict mediation seminars in my parents’ basement. They mostly consist of me reminding my brothers that murder is illegal.
“Well, do it again. Come over tomorrow.”
I physically cringe. “I’m sorry. It’s not possible.”
“Why?”
“I—” No. No I statements. Too personal. “This is a stressful, busy time. The semester just started and . . .” Do I tell her? I shouldn’t. But maybe she’ll want to know? “I’m interviewing for a job.”
“You have a job.”
“This is a better job.”
“Your job is already a better job.”
I consider bringing up concepts like relativity, gig economy, and insulin resistance. “This is even better.”
“Let’s hear it—what is it?”
“Professor.”
“So you’d go from being a professor to being a professor.”
Needless to say, I don’t bother telling my parents about the pendulous nature of my job situation. Or . . . anything else. “I’ll call them tomorrow morning, okay?”
She grumbles for five more minutes and guilts me into calling tonight, then switches to complaining about something related to toxic deodorants that she saw on Facebook.
I hang up to a notification—not Greg, but some guy looking for a fake girlfriend for a Valentine’s Day group date.
I decide on the spot to personally blame Faux for tonight’s shit show and chuck the iTwat into the laundry hamper.
What’s the plan here? Cece asked.
I have a grand total of zero ideas, which means that I’m going to have to annihilate Jack Shitwipe Smith-Turner the old way: by excelling at my job.
I sigh deeply. Then I pull my ancient Mac onto my lap, click on my teaching demonstration, and rehearse the crap out of it.