Miracle Man (20 page)

“Damn, you smell so amazing,” he said to one of them, a curvy Latina in tight satin pants.

“It’s called perfume, baby.”

“It doesn’t smell like that in the bottle, that’s for sure,” replied Bobby.

“You’re an expert?” she said, as she laughed and bumped her left hip against his.

“It’s chemistry. Trust me, I know,” he replied.

The other dancer, a leggy Black girl in a white leather mini-skirt, whispered in his ear, “You move really good, sweetie.”

“I’m inspired.”

“We already got inspired. We’re rolling. Do you want to roll too?”

Bobby raised his eyebrows. “Roll. What do you mean? Are you leaving?”

“No hon. E— you want some?”

As inebriated as he was, Bobby declined, wary of the potential effects of drugs on his psyche. The girls picked up the pace of their movements as they ground against him. He closed his eyes and felt the music wash over him as the drinks kicked in like depth charges. His mind transported him back to the dance party on Cruz Beach in St. John. He was there again with Joe and they were laughing and hugging like drunken sailors as they bumped hips with the socca contestants. Joe’s face was tanned and his eyes sparkled in the blinding tropical sun. His smile was broad and radiant. The music grew louder and louder and the percussion more urgent. Bobby shook his head hard, opened his eyes to the glaring strobe lights, and grabbed two more shots off the hostess’ tray and downed them in quick succession. He put his arms around the girls and suggested that they continue their party in more intimate surroundings. They were game and took him back to their apartment. As he and his two companions intertwined in varying combinations throughout the night, he finally escaped his demons. When the three had finally exhausted each other, Bobby slept soundly for eleven hours.

He had found his replenishment mechanism. He knew it was superficial, but it would suffice. He felt he had no alternative. Relationships were time consuming luxuries that he believed he wasn’t entitled to. Joe’s words reverberated in his mind, but they had become distorted: “Don’t squander your gifts. We all have our allotted time—use yours well. Don’t be like some of the others who could have made a big difference but blew it.”
Twisting this into a dark commandment requiring unrelenting discipline and self-denial, Bobby rejected any semblance of normal balanced living.

But there was more to it than that. As Dr. Uhlman had explained to Peter and Edith when they were contemplating having Bobby enroll in the Institute, intelligence of the magnitude possessed by Bobby was self-isolating. His intellect would confine him and alienate him from society at large. Bobby’s intelligence was a roadblock to social intimacy. It awed and intimidated others to such a degree that he was ostracized by those who were enamored of him. People who knew who he was felt awkward around him. What should they say? Should they make small-talk? They worried they would sound like idiots. They didn’t realize that simple normal human interaction was something that Bobby craved, but his inherent shyness and undeveloped social skills inhibited him from taking the initiative. He got a reputation for being distant, detached, “in his own world,” and often impatient.

30

E
ven before losing his affiliation with MIT and Harvard, Bobby was concentrating his efforts on autoimmune diseases and to do this, he had focused on multiple sclerosis, one of over eighty diseases classified as autoimmune which afflict millions of people. In an autoimmune disease, the body turns its own immune system against itself, utilizing its antibodies to attack healthy cells as if they were hostile foreign agents. In effect, the body begins to destroy itself. Despite years of research and hundreds of millions of dollars spent, science knew little about what actually caused these maladies. Because of this, all that was available were
ineffectual treatments, typically immuno-suppressing in nature, which had the undesirable side-effect of reducing the overall efficacy of the body’s immune response, thereby making the patient more susceptible to illness.

Eighteen months into his experiments, he was frustrated. Every avenue he explored took him no further than his predecessors. “Damn, this is brutal,” Bobby muttered to himself as he decided it was time to call it quits for the night. It was two in the morning, he had a bad cold, and he had been in the lab since nine the previous morning. Walking in the downpour of the unrelenting thunder storm without an umbrella, he was soaking wet in less than a minute. As Bobby trudged across the deserted campus, Tufts looked like the set of a grade-B horror movie as its looming buildings were sporadically illuminated with strobe like intensity by the lightning flashes. Bobby sniffled and sneezed his way into his bathroom and pulled off his wet clothing. He stuffed his feet into his slippers, put on his terry cloth robe and then shuffled his way into the kitchen to get some orange juice. Grabbing the refrigerator door handle, the static shock that Bobby received was so powerful that his hand flew off the door, a spark blinded him, and he was propelled backwards from the force of the electrical discharge.

“Holy crap,” he yelled out. Shaking his head,
he went into the living room, this time being careful to gingerly lift his feet. Sitting by the window, he watched the violent storm intently and as he did, his mind began to drift. Becoming lost in thought, eyes closed, his cognitive processes gradually accelerated and then began to race. Bobby’s mind was now awash with thousands of numbers and scientific symbols flashing by in a blindingly white light as if he were careening along a mathematical autobahn. He clutched the arms of his chair as if to steady himself. And then his flight came to an abrupt stop.

Oh my God. That’s it. That’s been it all along. Like I had to be hit over the head. Why didn’t I realize it?
Bobby threw on some dry clothes, grabbed an umbrella and ran out of his apartment to get back to the lab.
Electricity.
His new research and experiments began that night, but within a month, he was sure he was finally on to it.

It took another year and a half, but shortly after Bobby turned twenty three, he was ready to announce his findings. He submitted his scientific conclusions, together with over one thousand pages of formulaic and laboratory proofs to the
New England Journal of Medicine
, the premiere medical research publication in the United States. What Bobby had done was discover the underlying cause of autoimmune disease. The cause was something that no one had ever conceived of. In making this discovery, Bobby marshaled his full panoply of immense abilities in physics, chemistry, biology and mathematics.

He proved that the reason the body’s antibodies attacked healthy cells was because those particular cells displayed irregularities in their bioelectrical current. Such irregularities were detected by the antibodies and led them to identify the cells as hostile foreign matter that needed to be attacked and destroyed. Having found the underlying cause of autoimmune diseases, Bobby knew what the cure needed to be. His submission to the
New England Journal of Medicine
included his reports and data on a complex chemical compound which he had formulated, which would travel in the bloodstream, detect bioelectric cellular irregularities and lodge in the affected tissues. The compound would then, through a process of regulating the exchange of potassium and sodium across cellular membranes, balance out any irregularity. Once the irregularity in the bioelectric current was eliminated, the affected cells immediately ceased to appear to be antigens to the body’s antibodies, that is, they no longer were earmarked for destruction as foreign matter. The attacks would stop and previous damage that had been done would in many cases be repaired by the body over time. This compound could be ingested in pill form as an ordinary daily medication. Bobby playfully named the compound, “Eversteady” — a take-off on the famous battery trademark, and a reference to the effect the medication had on the body’s bioelectricity.

While Bobby had focused primarily on multiple sclerosis, it was clear that this same approach would be equally valid across the full range of autoimmune diseases. The editors of the
New England Journal of Medicine
were flabbergasted. If Bobby was correct, then what he had achieved was one of the greatest scientific breakthroughs in history. They took his entire treatise including the thousand pages of proofs, and published a special edition, which due to its length encompassed five volumes. Over the course of the ensuing year, Bobby’s conclusions were tested in over two dozen of the leading universities and research hospitals of the world. The verdict was unanimous. Bobby had done it.

31

T
he news of Bobby’s discovery galvanized the worldwide media. But beyond the interest in the medical achievement, the curiosity about Bobby was intense. As one television newscaster asked, “Who is this prodigy who we understand is under 25 years old? Where does he come from? Who are his parents? What’s the next disease on his hit list? And just how smart is he anyway?” Reporters from newspapers, wire services and television stations descended on Tufts University in droves. They all wanted statements and interviews with Bobby. Dean Walterberg met with Bobby to discuss how this should be handled.

“Robert, I’ve consulted with the university’s press department, and they would like to set-up an official televised “meet the press” session for you, to then be followed by a series of separate interviews which you’ll do with the
New York Times
, the
Washington Post
, the
Los Angeles Times
, and then one major newspaper from each of eight designated international territories. Then, you’ll be scheduled for appearances on no more than three of the national talk shows.”

“I don’t want to do any of that, dean.”

“What do you mean Robert? This is a major public relations event for you and the University. It’s highly newsworthy. The public wants to know.”

“Tufts can have all the publicity it wants. It deserves it. It supported me and gave me the use of its facilities. But I want none.” Bobby remembered the admonitions that Joe had delivered to him on
Dreamweaver:
“Don’t get seduced by the limelight… Some who could have made a difference went astray because they wanted publicity, adulation, glamour—they thought they were celebrities. They wasted their time.”

Walterberg shook his head. “You’re the hero here. You’ve worked like a dog for years to get to this point. The world wants to know you.”

“I’m not a celebrity. I’m a scientist. And I can’t take credit for a gift I’ve been given. I’m not interested in making public statements or being photographed. Please dean, leave me out of it. You make the speeches.”

“They don’t want me. They want you,” Walterberg said. “What should I tell them?”

“Tell them that the patents to my ‘Eversteady’ medication will be held by a non-profit corporation which I’m establishing, to be called ‘Uniserve.’ I’m going to use that company for all medicines I invent. These belong to everyone. They’re not there to profit me or pharmaceutical companies. I want them to be made available as cheaply as possible.”

While Bobby shunned publicity and guarded his privacy, Dean Walterberg didn’t miss an opportunity for media attention. He took to the media like a mosquito to a picnic. The publicity had the benefit of attracting huge amounts of donations. Checks poured in from around the world. Bobby established a charitable fund for the contributions, The Edith and Peter Austin Foundation For Medical Research. A special bank protocol was set up to allow checks with Bobby’s name on them to be deposited into the fund, because despite the instructions that Tufts gave, donors just seemed to want to write the name Robert James Austin on their contributions.

“Robert, I have some good news for you,” Dean Walterberg said. “I’ve spoken to the Trustees and they agree that some changes should be made. It’s no secret that you live in your office, so you’re getting a bigger one—and we’re customizing it for you so it will have an attached apartment. And let me be the first to call you ‘Professor’.”

“I feel like the big winner on a TV game show,” Bobby replied, smiling.

Walterberg rattled on excitedly. “There’s more. We’re hiring two additional lab technicians for you, and you’re going to have your own secretary.”

“Now, you’re overdoing it, dean. I’m fully capable of making my own coffee and I never answer my phone anyway, so I really don’t need that.”

“Yes, you do. More than you know. There’s a lot that needs to be taken care of and it will only increase. You have baskets full of unopened mail, the IT guys tell me that your voice-mail has never been listened to, acknowledgments need to be sent for donations, and invitations should be answered, one way or the other.”