The Demands of
Science
by Shane Stay
I am Phil
Bunklemen and given the importance of my
employment I will just say that I work for a well
known scientific lab, detecting lost deuterium
particles and newly formed neutron stars, both of
which are among the most difficult, painstaking
jobs in science, however, I prefer either to a
night out with Mrs. Bunklemen.
When a
rascally, spry little deuterium decides to be
mischievous and play the microscopic version of hide
and seek it becomes a cumbersome task to
locate it and I must first prepare by asking the
important question: latte or straight black roast?
Then I must put on the proper attire, a suit that
makes awkward look trendy. It’s
hard enough wearing something that Ronald Reagan
would have mistaken for the head of a nuclear
missile but it becomes even more demanding when
the coffee catches up to me and I need a restroom
break. If my bladder is feeling uncooperative, as
it has the mind to do at just a time, I look like
a Halloween costume honoring the team that
quarantined ET, appearing tipsy,
stumbling any way but straight as if late for the
subway in my quest for the restroom. I yearn for
the day a urinary catheter be installed, per my
myriad of requests.
To make
matters worse, some deuterium decide they want to
relocate to the comfort of relatives and I find
myself wallowing in the staff swimming pool
trying to concentrate with my microscope while
avoiding the avid swimmers, eager on completing
their laps with the determination of a stock
broker near solvency. It often takes me up to one
year to locate Mr. Deuterium and when I do I give
him a good talking to. He, with a manner of
apropos, reminds me that I may have won this
round but the game is never over. At this point I
use my pointy equipment to keep him at bay, which,
to the eyes of a passerby, looks more like a self-contained
exhibition of Kendo than the scolding of a
deuterium particle.
Then it is
back to detecting those neutron stars and what
darlings they can be! I once burst into joy upon
a great discovery, a star which I named Amanda
123, before I was shattered with disbelief to
realize the eccentric clicking noise I heard was
that of a hip-hop beat emanating from the iPod of
the boss’s son, a young curly haired hell-breaker
going by the unenviable name of Dead Horse 3000.
To say the least, I was mentally devastated but
regrouped upon the news of yet another vagrant
deuterium deciding to go AWOL, and I’m sure
he was finding solace in the knowledge that
I’d be getting dressed for the chase. True
to form I retrieved a map, which I have
fastidiously drawn based on past adventures,
earning me no less than an honorary degree in
calligraphy, and set to the task of tracking the
old boy down!
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