Obsessions
Bonnie Olsen
Back when I was hired, the boss—I’ll call him DM—struck me as an unusually gloomy man. Fine with me, so long as gloomy didn’t equal inertia. Research is funded by grants which are won on the basis of proposals, and those proposals are written by the boss—assuming he’s not inert.
Our project was supported by a small grant, just enough to keep the lab going for a year while I dealt with a stream of incoming samples from clinics around the world: N’Djamena, Izmir, Tétouan, places I’d never heard of.
I was to streak each sample onto a special kind of agar that selects for the bacteria we study, grow it up, pick one isolated colony, grow it up, and freeze the results, then repeat the process again, and again, day after day. It’s meticulous, repetitive labor—utterly unbearable for most people—but for me, my preferred element. I am a research technician, a very good one, in fact.
I may have had my doubts about DM, but the workplace itself was entirely to my liking: a small one-person lab—me—meaning I never had to deal with co-workers bent on expressing their oh-so distinctive personalities.
Better yet, this lab had an adjoining office—with door—for the boss. Once, I worked at a place where the boss’s office was nothing but an alcove set off from the rest of the lab, and though I didn’t have to endure co-workers, I did have to bear the boss’s notions of conviviality. Two or three times a week, she’d call out through her non-door, did I want to go out to lunch, her treat? Would I like some Girl Scout cookies? Did I plan to attend so-and-so’s birthday party down the hall? I left that lab mid-project—in fact, left the entire institution—and went to work at a lab with better architecture.
One day I was preparing samples for freeze-down, when somebody behind me said, “Hi.”
I didn’t reply. You don’t, when microscopic droplets of saliva could contaminate your work. I am known for my impeccable sterile technique.
“Uh…hi?”
I closed my vial and plunged it into its dry ice-and-ethanol bath. The bath boiled up the way a cup of rum punch boils around a hot poker—but didn’t boil over. I always get my proportions right. Satisfied, I turned.
The voice belonged to a scruffy fellow, longish greasy hair, ill-fitting boots, raggedy windbreaker: nothing I wanted anywhere near my lab bench. He affected an overly friendly grin. “DM in?”
A pointless question. DM was visiting his dentist, as the sign on his office door clearly stated. That was something I appreciated about DM, the way he posted a sign whenever he left, always specifying hour, date, and reason so I wouldn’t have to deal with interruptions. I can’t be gabbing with visitors when there’s work be done.
“Um, can I wait?”
No point answering that. His grubby butt was already in my desk chair; his hands with grimy fingernails—I could spot them from across the room—already touching my desk, my pen, my notepad. I made a mental note to swab that desk and everything on or near it with seventy-percent ethanol as soon as possible.
But I had work to do.
Our long-term freezer is housed, unfortunately, in a facility shared by two other labs. Sure enough, Sheryl, a tech from down the hall, was there before me. An ambush? She closed the freezer door and leaned against it. “That wasn’t Stan I saw down your way, was it?”
I was carrying a full complement of samples, dry ice, and ethanol; not my preferred condition, despite being properly gloved.
She said, “Scruffy guy? Kind of shabby? Bet he’s waiting for DM—hope he is—that’s sure to be exciting. Want to know why?”
She waited for me to ask why—which I didn’t—and I waited for her to move her gossipy self away from the freezer door.
She said, “Well, the thing is, Stan used to work here. Had DM’s tech job before you, and got fired! You should have seen—”
I reached around her, grabbed the freezer door’s handle, and yanked.
She got the idea and I gained access. I have no time for gossip.
I could see why Sheryl was expecting excitement, though. I’ve often seen bosses fire somebody then pretend to be the friendliest people on earth. But I’ve never seen a fired worker return to visit his former boss. Unless it’s for revenge.
When I got back to the lab, Stan the Fired Tech was asleep, head down, drool pooling on my desk.
But I had work to do. Colonies to pick, plates to streak; more colonies to pick, more plates to streak.
Suddenly cheers erupted behind me, and I almost dropped a whole stack of agar plates. It was Stan and DM falling into each other’s arms like long lost bosom buddies. Difficult to fathom, but good to see DM so, well, alive. I almost smiled.
Nov. 13, 11:30 AM
LUNCH WITH STAN, BACK BY 1 PM
That’s what the sign on DM’s office door read, and I was glad. Stan’s presence was a tonic for DM—and therefore a tonic for me. If that was Stan the Fired Technician’s idea of revenge, it didn’t seem to be working. In fact, I was expecting word of a grant proposal in the works any day.
JAN. 5, 11:30 AM
OUT WITH STAN
At first, the two of them just went out to lunch. Then they turned to playing some sort of car racing game on the computer in DM’s office. It filled both office and lab with the roar of engines and masculine comradery.
I tried not to mind, because whenever Stan the Fired Technician stayed away for three or four days, DM would become gloomy again, and I’d have to worry about that grant proposal. But then Stan would show, DM would return to vibrancy, and I’d relax. Of course, I couldn’t know exactly what DM did when he was alone in his office, but logically, grant writing would be on the agenda.
MARCH 10, 10:30 AM
OUT ALL DAY WITH S.
DM was more animated than ever, especially when he and Stan were talking G-force. G-force seemed to play a big part in whatever it was they were up to on those days they spent away from the lab.
Yet, though DM was animated, he didn’t seem to be working on that grant proposal. In fact, he was hardly ever at his desk. I’d e-mail him my weekly report of samples received and processed, and all he’d write back would be, “Thanx.”
But I’d catalogued well over a hundred samples thus far, surely enough for some kind of pilot study. I even included a line suggesting just that in my next weekly e-mailed progress report.
DM wrote back, “Thanx.”
MAY 2, 10:00 AM
OUT ALL DAY WITH S.
Another in a growing string of Out All Day signs. At least the lab was quiet now, making this the best lab position I’d ever held. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like I’d be holding this position long—not unless some other grant kicked in after our present one ended.
I never have trouble finding new positions because I am a good worker. But could the same could be said for DM? His professional reputation had to be suffering. A good technician would give her boss a nudge.
Instead of submitting my ordinary weekly report, I e-mailed him our entire catalogue of samples, their dates received, code numbers, countries of origin, locations in the freezer, and whatever unusual colony characteristics I’d noticed. At the very least, that last about unusual colonies should pique his interest.
DM’s e-mailed response: “Thanx.”
JUNE 18, 9:30 AM
ICBID CONFERENCE
ICBID stands for International Congress on Bacteriology and Infectious Diseases. This year’s meeting was to be held at a certain conference center in Idaho. I’ve been there. It’s a faux-rustic retreat that mixes luxury and informality to create a perfect environment for the exchange of ideas and promotion of collaboration. Better yet, it would be the perfect chance for DM to get his name added to some other researcher’s proposal. I had my hopes.
The three-day conference ended but DM didn’t come home. A full week passed after that, and still, I had no word from DM, not even an e-mailed “Thanx” for my regular progress report. At least, Stan the Fired Technician wasn’t coming by to intrude upon my solitude.
Who did come by was the chair of our department. She hadn’t heard from DM either, not a note, not a peep. Together, we rifled through his desk searching for clues about whatever travel plans he’d made, because he hadn’t made them through regular channels; the chair already knew that.
We finally found a Post-it note reading “Sky Adventures” and a telephone number. I phoned, and together we listened on speaker as Miss Sky Adventures told us that yes, DM had reserved flight time on June 18, but not for any trip to Idaho. Sky Adventures is about parachute jumping.
Eventually, DM’s body was found attached to a parachute snagged high in a tree. Stan the Fired Technician has not been found, so they’re calling him a missing person.
As for me, when I showed the department’s chair my accurate, detailed, up-to-date catalogue of frozen-down samples, she agreed to write a glowing reference—another in my collection of glowing references. I am, as I said, a very good worker.
Sheryl waylaid me at the freezer again. “Wasn’t that just horrible? Well, I knew some kind of revenge was in the works, didn’t you? I mean, after what Stan was fired for and everything.”
Another ambush. I had no time for this.
“But didn’t you know? Stan the Man! Stan the Dealer Man, get it? Fired for selling laboratory ethanol to undergrads—and that was just the beginning. Reagent-grade caffeine, God knows what lab he was getting that from, but med students were wild for the stuff. Barbital—I think he was lifting that from some histology lab—you can get a real good night’s sleep with barbital, but it’s terribly addictive.”
Yet again, she was blocking access to the freezer.
“See, with Stan,” she said, “whatever addiction you’ve got, he’s the man to feed it.” She paused as if in thought, and when I made a move to go around her, added, “So doesn’t that make you wonder what DM’s addiction was?”
It didn’t, but she went on anyway. “The way I figure it, DM’s addiction was to liveliness. You know, basic human interaction.”
I pushed around her.
“Don’t you want to know what your obsession is?”
I faked a sneeze and spilled freezing ethanol all down her leg. I had no time for this. I am not obsessed with anything. I’m just very, very good at my work.