Eyeheart Everything (8 page)

So this is where Absorbine Jr. lives, along with old Mister Absorbine Sr. in their massive research chalet in downtown Springfield, Mass.

“We like it fine,” said the limber-jointed patriarch as he showed me past the long cases that hold his antique bottle collection. “We could live anywhere in town, of course, but here we’re closer to the heart of things. My son says he has to be near the lab at all times, in the event of a sudden brainstorm, you know. Come, we’ll see if he’s there.”

Soon enough we came to a wide atrium, thick with the activities of two dozen sprightly septuagenarian lab assistants and well-furnished with racks and benches of glass pipettes, flasks, inhalators, and other chemist’s equipment. Junior (as we learned he is called even by his many subordinates) wasted no time with introductions, instead beckoning that our party should hurry to observe through his well-oiled microscope a drama unfolding at the cellular front.

“This will fascinate you,” the young inventor explained in boyish tones. “Dyed blue, and more to the right, you’ll see — here, I’ll adjust the lens — you’ll see a strain of the E. Coli bacterium that has been nurtured in a distillate of my famous namesake balm. Dyed red, and huddled on the left edge ... here!” He gestured with the tip of a pen as we attempted to maintain focus — “here is a colony of E. Coli bred in a dish of that nefarious autotoxin sold to the public as DMSO. You have no doubt heard the health and rejuvenative claims made for this stuff by an assortment of untrained chemists, country doctors and, ahem, herbalists. Now watch closely.”

We did as the good doctor bade — for we do not recall if he holds an accredited Doctorate, but he seems on first encounter eminently worthy of the title — and we watched as, on the hair’s-width field of microscopic battle, the red and blue cells engaged in mortal combat cilium a cilium. As predicted, it was a rout. “I have staged many such experiments, and the results are uniform. I hope that when my aggregate findings are published in the Dermatic Events Monitor, an informed public will become less credulous of such swindlement.”

While he conducted us on a topical tour of lab activities — an array of research and development projects too exhaustive to enumerate — we asked him how he came to the world of applied topiary theory.

“My old Dad was the one who brought me my first jar of cold cream, back when I was a youngster. I used to race bicycles in those days, and I knew a lot of other racers, amateurs and professionals, who suffered from joint soreness. But at the time I was more concerned with keeping my hubs and chains lubricated, and dealing with the chafing and cracking, in certain sensitive areas, that are the mascots of professional racers and dedicated tourists alike. One day Pa suggested I try the cold creme for my chapped areas, and on that occasion I was by chance out of axle grease, having used it up not just on the axle bearings but also on my chain and derailleurs ... I’m afraid I’ve never been able to put things where they belong.

“At any rate, I experimented with the cream, found it useful in a number of areas, and yet lacking in all of them. I wondered if I might gain added penetration by adding menthol; whether beeswax or paraffin might improve bonding, and so on. The formal study of chemistry came later, but it was there in my father’s shack —”

Suddenly the great man’s reminiscences were fissured by a deafening blast from the far side of the hall. For a moment panic reigned amid the burning smells and flying glass. A fire alarm rang out as flames spread rapidly across tables and floors. A coughing older gentleman found us cover behind a nearby chemical vat as Junior, clearly a man of action, raced up the catwalk and opened the valves of an elaborate system of pipes and tubing that laced the ceiling. “Stay calm, everybody!” he bellowed, and with the twist of a final giant knob the room began to fill with a thick, creamy, aromatic rain. The flames, which seconds earlier had threatened to engulf us, were quickly extinguished, and the unpleasant acid smells were replaced with a cool eucalyptus flavour. The good doctor closed the hydraulic system and climbed carefully back down the hot, stiff and well-lubricated iron rungs.

He winked. “Absorbine Jr. — just the thing for chemical fires! But gracious, your suit is coated ... please, let one of my assistants escort you to the baths and attend to your needs.”

And he made good on that promise. After we paid a relaxing visit to the laboratory showers and sauna, our clothes were returned to us, dry and perfectly clean, with only a pleasantly lingering odor to remind us of the amusing episode. We later learned that they had undergone an experimental, but totally successful, chemical dry-cleaning method developed by Absorbine and his staff, and employing again his signature cream. Indeed, we marveled, if there are no panaceas, this is yet the closest thing.

We concluded our visit after a tour of the
immaculately kept yards, the freshly-scented stables, and the gymnasium and bicycle track that receive much of Junior’s leisure attention, and which he egalitariastically shares with his remarkably muscular and flexible staff of older scientists. It is all as fabulous as you have heard, and befitting this man, who has given so much to his community and the world with his brilliant innovations. We left convinced of the exciting future which Science holds for us all, and of the bounteous wealth and glistening goodness of human Genius. Truly, there is no better time than now to be alive.

But enough about me. Tell me about you. The real you. Be honest. So, you’re an investment analyst? Sounds interesting. Are you rich? Ha ha, just kidding, no, seriously, are you rich? How rich are you? What kind of car do you drive? Is it imported? How fast does it go? Is there a cup holder? Is it one of the retractable kind of ones? really? wow. So what does an investment analyst do? uh huh? uh huh? mmm. interesting. So, what kind of movies to you like? Do you like the ones with lots of special effects? The ones with Gwyneth Paltrow in them? The ones where stuff explodes? Did you see Titanic? really? Me too! wow. Do you like the ones where they’re all from some foreign country and there’s little words at the bottom of the screen and you can’t figure out what’s going on and they’re really really long? oh. really? oh. So, do you like sports? What kind of sports? Do you like football or baseball? Do you like hockey? Do you like Wayne Gretsky? Not personally, I mean. Do you know Wayne Gretsky? Personally? Wow. No, me neither. Do you like wrestling? Do you like the World’s Strongest Man competitions on ESPN2? Uh huh? Where they have to pull trucks uphill with their teeth and then catch kegs of beer that are dropped off a diving platform, and then lift farm animals over their heads? Really? Wow. How about water ballet? hmm. So. Tell me about your family. Are you an only child? Brothers or sisters? Sisters? How many sisters? Really? Wow. That’s a lot of sisters. Do they all look like you? How old is the oldest one? What’s the difference between the oldest one’s age and your age, in years, approximately? Oh, I don’t know, just curious.

So, do you read books? Hmm. Do you read magazines? Which ones? Do you read Time? Do you read People? Do you read TV Guide? Do you watch a lot of TV? Really? Wow. What shows do you watch? Do you watch Ellen? Really? No, I’ve never seen it myself actually. Yeah. No. Yeah. But I heard it’s really really good. Do you worry about the future? Really? Do you worry about the millennium? What do you think’s going to happen? Floods? Famine? Computer crisis? really? Do you think it’s going to last? wow. really? How does this affect your job as an investment analyst? Hmm. What about global warming? What do you think about population increase? Really? Wow. Yeah, me too, someday. You know, when I find the right person. Did you like the meal? How’s the wine? Did you fart? Really? hmm. no, it wasn’t me. Do you want desert? A cordial? A drink someplace? My place? Really? Wow. You know, you’re really interesting. No, really.

Pelted by snow, by sleet, by rain. Pelted by stones, by fish, by golf balls the size of golf balls. They slam into the roof of the car. Pelted by bricks, little chunks of them fly off, they are kiln-fired bricks with the name of the kiln that fired them stamped on the side. They bang the car like a big steel drum, but with the AEDS (Anti-Environmental Dampening System) we hardly notice. Bob cranks up the car stereo. The subwoofer thunders as we are pelted some more, by hot iron chains, by flaming spears. They bounce right off the impact-resistant windshield, although they do mar the top layer of Combat-Formulated Turtle Wax. Now we are pelted by actual cats and dogs. They are not happy about pelting us. We roll on over them, crushing their whimpering bodies. It’s surprisingly comfortable, riding in Bob’s brand-new 1999 Jeep Interloper with all the options.

We are on the Black Island of Tartulia, in the South Pacific, climbing the Forbidden Path up the Volcano of Certain Smiting. The volcano doesn’t want us here, but Bob assures me that his new sport-utility vehicle is more than a match for any third-rate speed-bump of an island deity. The guy at the dealership gave his personal guarantee, says Bob. We scour along over the debris and broken meat and sharp volcanic stone, winding up the evil road. Bob hits the shuffle button on the trunk-mounted shock-resistant one-hundred disc CD changer. We listen to the Sugarcubes as we’re pelted with blades, with huge boulders, with flaming tires. Bob activates the four-wheel drive.

Bob is my team-leader’s co-supervisor’s co-supervisor at work. Neither of us are sure whether or not that makes him one of my direct bosses, but he is a vice president of some kind and I am not. Among the stratospheres of management, he is the ozone layer, and I am fog. We were sent out here as ethics-assessment visitors to one of our assembly plants on the other side of the island. Bob organized the trip and got approval and funding from the board. I volunteered to accompany him as video camera operator because I figured it’d be a fairly easy way to do something ethical for Third-World workers, which was my New Years’ resolution. Bob says we’ll drop by the factory later, after we break in his new car.

We round the ragged east side of the volcano’s slope and approach a great stone gate, carved with mythic runes of anti-invitation. Guarding the gate are a pair of three-headed hellhounds, snarling, spitting sulphur, black skinned, red eyed, their barks hollow and enormous. Bob switches the CD to Metallica, rolls up the windows and locks the doors with an automatic pop. The dogs scream. Bob honks at them. They howl. He honks. One dog growls and leaps forward, covering the distance between us in one leap, and its huge snout bangs against the windshield, and its red flaming eyes bore into our souls. Bob activates the windshield washers and sprays the hound with ammonia-based window cleaner. The other dog has gotten behind us, it’s chewing on one of our wheels, I can feel the suspension compensating. The anti-theft system is triggered. The dogs howl and bark and the car goes beep beep beep beep whoooop whoooop rrt rrt rrt rrt ooo eee ooo eee arp arp arp arp arp. The frontmost dog tears at the antenna with its powerful jaws. A mechanized voice demands: STEP AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE! THIS CAR IS PROTECTED BY AN AUTOMATED SECURITY SYSTEM! The front dog climbs onto the roof and claws viciously at the bike racks. Seeing an opening, Bob hits the gas and races ahead through the gates, scattering the dogs behind him, the car still shouting ARMED RESPONSE! ARMED RESPONSE! as we speed away up the steep incline, spitting volcanic gravel behind us.

Bob is pleased with his victory, but expresses concern about the antenna, which is an expensive part, as are all of the other parts on his new seventy-three-thousand dollar all-terrain luxury adventure system. The rear left end of the car lolls a bit. Bob says we have a flat ... but don’t worry, the tires will patch themselves and reinflate automatically. They’re German. As the tire rejuvenates, we are pelted by human heads. Dismembered, screaming heads, and what they’re screaming is largely non-constructive. The self-reinflating tire has reinflated itself and announces this fact with a synthesized strain from Beethoven’s Fifth. It is indeed a tough and fearless car, but despite the luxurious leather bucket seats and the gyrostabilizing cup-holders I still can’t quite relax. Now beheaded bodies are plummeting from above. One presumes these are the bodies the heads came from. They’re quite large and all over the place, and one of them lands smack-dab on the hood and claws and writhes, and mimes something unholy, and Bob brakes, to jerk it off the hood, and then accelerates, to roll on over it, as if it were a fallen branch or a traffic cone. And while he’s doing that he talks on and on about the great suffering he’s endured: the shopping, the feature-comparing and the price-comparing, the test-driving, the different selling points of the cars he almost bought but didn’t, the lying salesmen, and then how the self-reinflating tires were very expensive and he almost didn’t get them, but then again look how they’ve already paid for themselves. Meanwhile a dismembered hand has grabbed the left-side mirror and is maliciously maladjusting it as we continue through the bloody carnage.