The Genius of Little Things (12 page)

Down by the strip center, Carl pulled up to the curb next to me. He asked me if I needed a ride. I almost told him no, because I was so close to the store. But he seemed extraordinarily eager to help me out. I agreed to let him take me the final hundred or so feet. I thought he would drop me off and be on his way. But when I left the store, he was still sitting in the car, with that same look of concentration. I tentatively got in the car. He perked up again, as if he were a child’s toy and someone had just shoved new batteries in his back.

“How about that lesson? Do you have time?” Several times over the past three weeks he had offered to give me a driving lesson. As with the birthday party Janet threw for me, I thought these invitations were theoretical.

I told him I had a little time.

As he drove toward the I-15 freeway he explained displacement, torque versus horsepower, the value of manual transmissions in sporty cars, and other finer automotive points. It was becoming clear that Carl was a bit of a nerd, like me. If we ever could agree on a topic, we could conceivably maintain a long conversation.

He stopped the VW in the middle of an enormous lot near a motorist pit stop. He was shockingly cheerful. “Rrrrready when you are!”

I walked around to the driver’s side. Carl hopped into the passenger seat. He guided me though the process. “Don’t put your foot on the gas yet… keep the clutch in, and shift into first… now put your foot on the gas, just a little bit.”

After a few gear grinds, I got the hang of it. The rhythm—clutch-shift-accelerate—was like a dance. When I was in sync, the VW would repay me with a satisfying engine buzz and seamless gear changes. Other times it gave me a head jolt and a growl of protest.

Carl started talking about his life, cars, and his life in cars. In college he had an unreliable MG convertible, and then a 71 Cutlass, which was a “babe magnet.” Fifteen minutes and several automotive anecdotes later, I was ready to thank him and call it a day. Carl asked how the college application process was going. I told him it was fine. In reality, I had 190 pages of essay slush and about two usable paragraphs.

He asked whether I was still set on Caltech. I told him I was.

“It’s good to have fall back schools,” he said.

I forgot to take my foot off the gas. The engine revved. I stepped on the brake and the car lurched to a halt. The red and yellow lights stayed on, shaming me.

Carl told me to “start ‘er up again.” I turned the ignition and depressed the clutch. I shifted to first, and then to second, then third. When I settled back into the rhythm, Carl said he and Janet had always planned to pay for their son’s college and they still hoped to do that. Strange, I thought, as I tried to concentrate on shifting. Why was he planning to save money for a son? They were much too old to start having babies. They had to be at least in their mid-fifties.

Carl kept talking while I tried to concentrate on the clutch-shift-gas sequence. It was starting to annoy me. It’s like he had taken me out there not only to teach me how to use a manual transmission, but to bore me with his life story. “We’re going through some financial problems, as you’re probably aware. But you’re welcome to stay with us after you age out of the system. It could be helpful if you want to stay around here and go to UNLV.”

Clutch, shift… something… gas petal, shifter. I was confused. Carl waved his left hand. I shifted, skipping a gear. There was a grinding sound. The engine revved with ferocity. Carl gestured helplessly at the gearshift. My left leg had gone rigid and pushed the clutch all the way to the floor. I did a ninety-degree turn going forty. The car skittered off the pavement and onto a dirt embankment.

I slammed on the brakes. The car lurched to a stop. The instrument panel lights glowed. We sat in silence for a few seconds as dust settled around us.

“My grades and scores are good enough for Caltech,” I said.

“I’m thinking in terms of practicality. Since I teach in the system, there might be some financial incentive for you to go there.” That made no sense to me, because I was not his son. There was, as far as I knew, no discount for foster children of part-time professors. “Of course, you have the smarts to go anywhere. It’s amazing what you’re doing. A little quiet but I think we’re working on that.”

We’re
working on that? It occurred to me that, for two people who insisted on having conversations with me, they were just as bad at conversing as I was. They both could talk a lot of
scheizen
. And then he said one thing I hate almost as much as
smile, it’s not so bad
. “Considering what you’ve been through, you’re doing great.”

I told him I had to study, even though I really didn’t. I thanked him for the lesson and said I didn’t need another one.

On Sunday, Carl and Janet left the house early. I sat at the breakfast nook with my cup of coffee. Because I was alone, I felt comfortable loudly humming “Urge for Going.” I noticed the message on the white board. It was in Janet’s slashy handwriting.
Nevada Child and Family Services called about your “emancipation.” Is this a mistake?

It wasn’t a mistake. The letter with my hearing date was still in my Box o’ Crap. The Foster-go-Round was expecting me to call back and confirm. I had neglected to do so because… well, I wasn’t quite sure. If I could have some kind of guarantee of not being uprooted again, and if Carl and Janet didn’t try to act like they were my real parents, then I wouldn’t mind staying in the foster system, and staying with them.

I couldn’t explain all that on the white board, so I wrote
no
.

ELEVEN

Moments after I left a pet store with an application for a non-existent job, the sky opened up. The desert storm was short, more like a like a violent cloud sneeze. It lasted just long enough for the rain to plaster my shirt to my torso, making me look as skinny as a freshly shampooed cat. I ran for shelter in the wrong direction.

I stopped to get my bearings at a nursing home called Colonial Gardens. The receptionist, Kate, smiled at me Mona Lisa-like, and asked how I learned about the job opening. I looked at her blankly. She informed me they had just fired two aides on the night shift, and more were going to get the ax. “I haven’t even had time to advertise for the positions and I’m not looking forward to sifting through a bunch of applications.”

I hadn’t planned to seek a job there. I didn’t even know the place existed. Of course, I asked to apply.

As with the Starbucks application, there was an open-ended question and half a page of blank space. I rewrote part of a Caltech essay attempt from memory, and it seemed to fit the question well.
What are three examples of your consideration for others?
My knowledge of germ-fighting techniques came in handy. I had just read an article on MRSA, the antibiotic-resistant bacteria common in hospitals and nursing homes. I wove my knowledge of that together with the techniques I would use to keep surfaces clean and keep the residents safe. When I finished, Kate told me that the staff of Colonial Gardens did God’s work. “Unfortunately God’s pay scale starts at ten dollars an hour.”

That was more than I had hoped for. It was thirty-eight hours a week, because they had to provide benefits at 40 hours. Three eighty a week, minus taxes, FICO and social security, for ten months would give me approximately fifteen grand for tuition, room, and board. Patients would be asleep on the night shift, wouldn’t they? I could do homework and get paid for it. I wanted that job.

“We’re like family here,” she said. “That’s what we strive for.”

“Me too,” I said, dumbly.

I assumed Kate would tell me to come back for an interview at a time when I was prepared and not dripping wet. Instead, she said the executive director, Mr. Wofford, was waiting for me. This was peculiar. To my knowledge, she hadn’t told him I was there. She had been sitting in front of me the whole time I filled out the application. If she had let him know about me, it was via telepathy.

Mr. Wofford wasn’t much taller standing than sitting. His handshake was surprisingly firm and he seemed intent on crushing my little finger.

“You made quite an impression on Kate.” He led me into his office and gave my wet clothes a quick glance. He turned to the window. The sun was shining. I fought the urge to explain that it
had
been raining hard, for exactly four minutes.

He asked me to sit. I perched on the end of the guest chair so my moist clothes wouldn’t dampen the entire seat. The A/C was on full blast and blowing against my wet shirt. I heard squeaking coming from somewhere in the office.

He scanned my application. “These are some impressive academic achievements. You’re planning on college?”

This was a gotcha question. What if they were looking for aides who would stay around more than a year? They wouldn’t want to train someone who would leave.

“Probably UNLV,” I said, choking a little.

 “You say you’re a helper,” he said. “Can you elaborate?”

“I’ve helped many people. I helped my... I saved my BiMo…biological mother’s life a few times.”

“You know CPR?”

“Yes, I do.”
But I couldn’t save my BiMo when it really mattered
. “I learned it when I was ten.”

Mr. Wofford smiled. “So young, yet so pragmatic. But what we’ve been missing in our aides is empathy. Many of our residents are tossed aside. Ignored by society. Some are ignored by their families. Might as well be flotsam.”

“I can relate,” I said, too eagerly.

He blinked rapidly.

“I’ve never been in a nursing home, but I will be,” I said. “Eventually. I wouldn’t like to be… flotsam.”

I recognized the source of the squeaking. My legs were pumping up and down, causing the chair to protest. Mr. Wofford asked if I wanted hot tea. I politely declined even though my shivering threatened to devolve into a body quake. It must have made him uncomfortable, because he cut the interview short.

“I can c-c-come back with r-r-recommendations,” I said, through chattering teeth.

“Not necessary. I’d like you to start next week.”

“O-k-k-kay.”

The job came with conditions. Within six months of my start date, I was required to complete two courses in nursing at a local community college. And there would be a probationary period. For one week I would be shadowing an experienced aide in the afternoon. If I didn’t screw up, I would start on the third shift, starting at 11 p.m. and ending at 7 a.m. I was told never to call it the graveyard shift, for obvious reasons.

**

The genesis of my interest in science was a comment my fifth grade teacher made. He said people believe that if they drop food on the ground it is safe to eat, if the food doesn’t stay there longer than five seconds. But science has shown that the rule is true only if the food is dry. If it is moist, bacteria cling to it immediately. My initial fascination with bacteria has now
morphed
moved on
exploded
grown
evolved to include the study of immunology. Having a close family member die from what should be harmless substances
really made me think is a tragedy that needs to be solved  is bound to make anyone a little crazy
can be a blessing in disguise, if not for me, then for all the people whose diseases I will cure.

SLUSH FILE.

**

The incongruity of Colonial Gardens’ architecture had not been apparent when I interviewed there. But on my first afternoon of shadowing, I was somewhat amused by its red brick façade, high portico and white columns. The name and the building made perfect sense in a warped, Las Vegas way. On the Strip there was an Egyptian pyramid, an Eiffel Tower and a fake New York City skyline, so why not a nursing home that evoked Monticello? There wasn’t anything remotely fecund in sight.

Kate asked for my driver’s license. It was formality, she said. I had listed my age as 18 on the application, not 17. Fortunately, I had a fake I.D. Levi had given me in lieu of payment for a tutoring session. The license said I was eighteen, which was perfect for lying about my age on a job application. It gave few other benefits, because the Nevada drinking age was 21. Unfortunately, the photo wasn’t me. Levi insisted that the photo he used—an actor, Christian Slater, who had a lot of hit movies as a teenager in the 80s—looked exactly like me. I made a mental note to watch some of the guy’s films.

Kate photocopied my fake license and my Social Security card without looking carefully at them.

My shadowee was Carmella, a plump and dour Latina whose uniform sleeves squeezed her upper arms like blood pressure cuffs. She explained that the four wings at Colonial Gardens corresponded to the residents’ level of functioning. The A wing had the highest functioning residents. The D wing had the largest percentage of residents who, for whatever reason, were incontinent, immobile or in some stage of catatonia.

I noted that we were on the D wing.