Dr. Marsteller Chapter 14
14
The plane
landed in La Romana after a layover in San Juan, Puerto Rico. After they passed through customs Dr.
Marsteller could sense Jack and Nichola’s nervousness as they walked through
the airport. Taxi drivers harassed them
with offers of rides to Casa de Campo.
They promised cheap rates but Dr. Marsteller thought he could sense a
rouse. And he led them purposefully past
the phalanx of solicitors to the area for the shuttle for the resort. A shuttle was luckily leaving when they
arrived and they no longer had to deal with the poor shoddy constituents of the
dilapidated country. The shuttle drove
down through the slums briefly on the way to the resort. Jack looked out the window and attempted to
contemplate the plight of the people.
Dr. Marsteller watched his mop of sandy hair flip with the breeze
through the window. His upper lip had
accumulated a small grove of blonde peach fuzz.
Eventually, Jack came to the conclusion that he felt sorry for the
people because he wouldn’t want to live like that. He also knew he was supposed to feel sorry
for them.
Casa de
Campo resort was another world compared to the rest of the island. The idyllic green golf courses surrounded the
palatial hotel spread. Out the back of the
resort, a beautiful sand beach soaked the sun and the waves from the cool
sea. They paid a bellboy for carrying
their luggage to the room and then walked down to the beach to take a stroll
while the sun set before dinner. The
waves collapsed and slid up the sand, foamy and an inch deep. Jack took off his shoes and ran through the
water. Dr. Marsteller watched with
pleasure as he knew from his youth how wonderful the sensation felt. Your feet slapping the water and lifting it
in shards spraying your calves and thighs.
You perceive your speed as faster than you can run on land, like you can
set the world record for the 100-meter dash.
The
ferruginous sunset bobbed into the felt Caribbean, like a withered rose pinned
to a grey suit. And the sky exploded
like Vegas nuked as the sun sunk out of sight.
When the gold flake stars flecked, they strolled back to the hotel in
the bland dusk light to sit down to a five star meal.
In the morning, Dr. Marsteller slept late
and meandered over to an immaculately groomed, intensely green golf course
along the water while Nichola and Jack went out to the beach. He rented a set of high end Callaways and
paid for his round.
-You alone?
Dr.
Marsteller looked around to a man just under 6 feet with a couple day old beard
and a white fedora. The man composed
himself with the intensity of a boxer.
-Yeah.
-Would you
care for some company while you’re playing?
Be kind of silly for two guys alone to be following each other out
there. Even if it is deserted.
-Sure. Yeah, why not?
-You
getting a cart?
-No,
figured I’d take my time out there.
Dr.
Marsteller noticed the guy was in incredible shape and wouldn’t understand his
own desire for a cart.
-I had kind
of a late night, but it might be nice to have a good stroll out there.
They
stretched out a little on the wide-open first tee.
-Man, this
is the life, a golf course all to ourselves, the man said.
-Yeah, not
bad. What’s your name? I’m not Tiger Woods, just to let you know.
-Ha
ha. Name’s Stan. Well, you don’t have to worry about that with
me shooting under par either. What do
you normally shoot?
-Around 90.
-Same
here. Maybe we can make it interesting
with a couple wagers. Your honor.
-Let’s hold
off on the wagers for now, said Dr. Marsteller.
He never saw the sense in betting.
The birds chirped faintly in the distance as he set his ball on the
tee. After a couple of practice swings,
he launched the drive up the middle of the fairway about 250 yards.
-Holy
shit. I take back that wager offer. Nice drive.
-So what do
you do? asked Stan after a few holes, making another overture to draw the quiet
Dr. Marsteller into conversation. Stan
was not the kind of guy who enjoyed being left with his own thoughts.
-I’m a
college professor.
-No wonder
you have time to be down here playing golf.
That must be quite the life.
-It’s all
right.
-Well, I’m
an investor. It’s a little fast paced
but sometimes I wish I had a more relaxed job.
-Down here
doing business?
-Ha
ha. No, just for pleasure. Man you’re kicking my ass.
-If you’re
about to propose another wager, don’t even ask.
I’m not interested.
-You should
be interested; you’ll win a lot of money.
-Well, you
might be hustling me.
-You are
certainly more difficult to get through to than a lot of the clients I work with.
-I suppose
I like to hang on to my money.
-Ha, you’d
be amazed at what I can sell some people.
Last month, I got a tip off of a stock split, so I was able to convince
everyone that I represented to sell to me and I made a huge killing off of it. They all unloaded but no one complained. I didn’t know what was going to happen,
right, right? Ha ha.
-Isn’t that
illegal?
-It better
be; making money shouldn’t be that easy.
-Aren’t you
concerned about getting caught?
-Hell
no. That was under the table and no way
the guy that told me tells anyone about it, because he could lose his ass
too. You have to understand the human
will, Sylvester. If you have it, you
win, if you don’t, you lose. And I have
it. So if you get in my way, I will
crush you. And I won’t think twice about
it. It’s a battle out there. And I’m not losing. I suppose a college professor wouldn’t know
what I’m talking about.
-Maybe not.
-It’s good
for me though, because I like to take advantage of the naïve kids coming out of
school being taught by people that aren’t naturally killers.
-You don’t
have any qualms about your job or your work?
-No way,
man, everybody does it. It just depends
on who is the best at doing it. I just
happened to be the strongest. I’m able
to impose my presence on other people and there’s nothing they can do about
it. And therefore the world is at my
fingertips. Why do you think I’m down
here? He swung the club and cracked it
down the fairway.
-Vacation
with your family, I assume.
-Family? I don’t have a family. The last thing I need is a wife. You need to get into the modern era. You’re a professor for god’s sake. You could easily get involved in this.
-Involved
in what?
Stan looked
at him out the corner of his eye, like a hog eyeing a brander. He sized Dr. Marsteller up for the
surprise. He was uncertain his secret
would be safe with the old codger. Dr.
Marsteller eyed him back, unsure he wanted to hear anything Stan had to
say. Then Stan couldn’t restrain
himself. He wanted to brag in front of
this straight and narrow college professor to show him what he could have had
but is now probably too old to have. The
guy who ostensibly taught all his students life lessons, only to have Stan kick
their ass in the real world so they learned an actual lesson.
-There’s
two places on this planet that are my favorite.
Can you guess what they are?
Dr.
Marsteller sized up his ball to hit. He
was about 150 yards from the green and pulled out a seven iron. He stepped up to the ball on the plush damp
fairway. Stan’s incessant chatter didn’t
stifle the serenity of the scene; he only seemed out of place. Dr. Marsteller struck the ball. It lofted high into the air, adjusted briefly
in the wind and landed about 15 feet left of the cup.
-Nice
shot.
-Thanks. So what are your two favorite places?
-The
Ukraine and the Dominican Republic. And
believe me, I’ve been all over the world.
-Never been
to the Ukraine.
-And I bet
you never really been here either.
Dr.
Marsteller thought about when he was in his 20s and he backpacked across the
Dominican Republic and Haiti. He decided
not to mention that experience. Since
then he had only come down to the resort and cloistered himself away from any
real life on the island, dreaming about the trip. Something he could do just as easily back in
Garret. He justified it because he felt
the weather helped him reminisce and therefore the trip to the resort was
valuable.
-These
women are the real deal. Milk chocolate
with strawberry filling. They are sweet
as the dewfall at nighttime. And
muscular in all the right places. And
the women in the Ukraine are bewitching waifs, lanky and soft. With long thin arching backs, so white you’d
think they were ivory.
-Why are
you telling me this?
-I’m saying
that there are ways now to visit these countries and get pleased by their best
looking specimens.
-So
what? Are you trying to say that you
like going to prostitutes?
-No, it’s
sex tourism man. Sex tourism. It’s a whole new ballgame. All these poor countries are looking for
income from the US and rich guys like me can check out the women in certain
establishments and decide if we want them or not.
-Sounds
like prostitution to me.
-Well, you
can call it whatever you want, if you want to try it out tonight, I’ll be
heading down to a good place.
-No
thanks.
Stan
chipped his 3rd shot onto the green about 20 feet from the pin. Dr. Marsteller removed the pin and let him
two-putt into the hole for a bogey before he took his shot at birdie. The ball curved from right to left into the
hole. They were silent much of the time
after Stan’s revelation until the round ended.
While walking up the fairway, Dr. Marsteller thought about Stan’s offer. He couldn’t comprehend himself going with
him. Putting on some nice clothes to
pick a prostitute? What would he wear if
he went? The whole situation seemed
ridiculous to him. Clearly he wasn’t
going to go down there. Stan was not
only a frequent consumer of prostitutes - he had also committed felonies in his
own line of work. The man was
remorseless as a child in the cookie jar.
Dr. Marsteller couldn’t comprehend this cavalier attitude to flout the
law. He now didn’t feel so bad about his
fabrications. At least he wasn’t as bad
as this sexual predator and felon. What he
was doing wasn’t so bad after all. Dr.
Marsteller told Stan goodbye after the round solemnly while Stan gave him a
look of condescension. His look seemed
to say, ‘you poor old man, you don’t know what is out there at your fingertips
and how to fully enjoy life.’ And Dr.
Marsteller’s look back said, ‘you poor misguided creature, don’t you realize
that true happiness is in diligent work and the affection of a loved one.’ It was an awkward goodbye. Dr. Marsteller returned his bag and strolled
out to the beach. He walked along the
shore skipping rocks and listening to seashells until he reached the hotel
beach. His son was reading the Jungle
Book while his wife waded in the blue immaculate water, like vanilla draped in
silk. Dr. Marsteller sat down next to
Jack and breathed deep.
-Hey dad.
-Hey.
Dr.
Marsteller closed his eyes and began to doze off. The moment when sleep slides down your throat
but your brain hasn’t shut down. The
hazy state of indeterminate color like the horizon separating the sky and the
sea. Thick but nearly
imperceptible. And as his brain began to
shut down in various compartments until one light lingered, his son spoke and
flashed him back up into the world.
-How was
golfing?
-Good, you
want to go with me tomorrow?
-Sure, I guess.
-Really? I thought you didn’t like it.
-Well, I
might as well.
-Yeah. It’s not bad.
No one is on the course.
-So it
won’t matter if I’m terrible.
-Doesn’t
matter anyway.
They
watched the swimmers splash and play for a moment.
-Dad, is it
true what they say on TV about you?
-What’s
that Jack?
-That you
discovered some anti-aging potion?
-It’s not
for sure Jack, a lot more research needs to be done.
-They say
that you have mice that can live forever.
-Well, they
lived for 10 years, 8 years longer than they were supposed to.
-Wow. That’s so cool.
-I thought
so too, Jack.
-So I might
live forever.
-Maybe.
-Dad,
you’re pretty cool. It’s like time is
not like real. Maybe it isn’t, but like
you won’t care what year it is or how old you are. It will be just like living for fun. So awesome.
-I’ve never
thought of it that way son.
-My friends
and I were talking about it at study hall the other day. They say that you’re pretty cool.
-Well, tell
them thanks. But I’d be a little
responsible with your life. It’s not
certain yet.
-That’s not
what they say on the news.
-Don’t
believe everything in the news. They
like to exaggerate everything.
-What do
you mean?
-I’m saying
it’s true in mice but we don’t know about humans yet. The gene was also given to embryos, and if it
would work in humans, we’d like to give it to people that are adults.
-Oh, I
see. If that works in mice, what are the
chances in humans?
-Don’t
know, we’ll have to see.
-Well, it’s
cool.
-Thanks.
Dr.
Marsteller brimmed with self-satisfaction.
His son had never called him ‘cool’ and it was a great feeling. Cool.
He was cool to the kids. I wasn’t
even cool when I was a kid, thought Dr. Marsteller. Then the twinge of guilt crept through his
body again. He hated to lie to his son
about his research. It was enough to lie
to his colleges and Mrs. Viscane. But
lying to Jack felt like he just spit in the holy water. Dr. Marsteller became flustered and fidgety
in the lawn chair.
-What’s the
matter, dad?
-Nothing, I
think I’m going to go up to the room for a little while. You relax out here. I’ll see you for dinner.
As he
walked through the lobby, he ran into Stan with a sultry woman hanging on his
arm. She was dressed in the maid’s
uniform. Dr. Marsteller had seen her
around the hotel. She was drop dead
gorgeous.
-Sylvester,
you don’t even need to leave the resort.
-That’s
good, Stan. He gave Stan a thumbs up for
lack of anything better to say, and quickly tapped the elevator to go to the
room and get out of sight. Once there,
he opened up his laptop and perused the files and papers he wrote pertaining to
the experiment. All of them were
false. The thing had taken on a life of
its own. He had crafted the lie so well
it was impossible to find holes in his logic.
The simple idea was a lie. The
base of the whole project. It was as if
he were in a house with a deteriorating foundation. And any minute it would cave in and kill
him. He opened up his email to send a
letter to Science to explain that everything was a hoax. He began writing the email to his friend, Dr.
Sebastian Prince.
Dr. Prince,
I have a confession
to make. My last article published in
your journal regarding new anti-aging retroviral therapies is false. The research was completely fabricated and
presented in a way to elucidate the possibilities of this therapy. However, none of these therapies have been
successful to date. I submitted this
paper for my own selfish aims – to keep my funding. I regret my action and would like to set the
record straight for the benefit of the scientific community. I’m incredibly sorry for misleading my fellow
scientists and hope my paper did not change the course of too many laboratory
programs. Please forgive me, Dr.
Sylvester Marsteller.
He put the
cursor over the send button with his finger on the mouse. The computer glared back at him and the
fallout from the letter envisaged in his mind.
He removed the cursor and deleted the message. Then he chastised himself if anyone came
snooping around, the message would probably be in his computer records. He thought about destroying the laptop. Then he thought it might be on his email
records as well. He looked again to make
sure he didn’t save the message. Maybe
it wouldn’t matter, he thought, then put his head back on his pillow and
immediately crashed into sleep.
The trip
was nearly unbearable now with Jack and his wife doting on him for something he
had never done. But each day he
persevered. He went golfing with Jack
and swimming in the ocean with his wife.
They ate dinner in the moonlight and breakfast in the cool morning
air. Dr. Marsteller’s memories didn’t
fade; they were bloated and fat like self-indulgent gluttons and continued to
grow in his brain until the weight of them pressed against his skull and his
head was about to burst. His thoughts
ranged from, ‘what I did wasn’t so bad in the grand scheme of things in this
world.’ To – ‘everyone else in the
scientific community fabricates research in order to get funding.’ To – ‘I have completely ruined my life and
what I stand for because of one indiscretion.
I am now a living joke and I’m not fit to live.’ And he thought about suicide, and the many
ways to do it. He thought about a
neurologist who told him horrific stories of people attempting to blow their brains
out, pointing the gun at the roof of their mouth, but just taking away part of
their frontal lobe and living the rest of their lives as imbeciles. The neurosurgeon told him that if you wanted
to commit suicide with a gun, you must go through your mouth and aim towards
the back of your head to destroy the brain stem – the root of the brain and
controls many vital functions like breathing and the heartbeat. But Dr. Marsteller arrogantly said to himself
that he stayed alive for his son, who ironically adored him for the exact
opposite idea of who he thought he was compared to who he actually was. And Dr. Marsteller knew it, but he didn’t
want to end his life in front of his son or until his son was older. He didn’t want his son to think that this
type of dishonesty was part of their blood, like some tainted gasoline in a
car. Dr. Marsteller knew he had to hang
on and put a good face forward for his son.
And if everything came to light, he’d have to own up to all of it in
front of his son. All of it was for the
good of his son. But Dr. Marsteller also
knew that the chance anyone would come forward and accuse him of scientific
fraud was slim. And even if they did, he
could deny it and deny it and deny it, and since no proof existed, he would be
taken on his word.
The balm in
the air rolled over their skin with the fine grains of sand and salt from the
sea. The suntan lotion mixed with the
salt air and emanated off their bodies with the electrical vigor of a buffalo
gazing off a promontory. Dr. Marsteller
sat on the patio and read a Michael Crichton novel. When he wasn’t reading, he played golf or
swam in the ocean. When it was time to
return to the States, he had nearly come to terms with his predicament. His mind was the immobile rusted tin man in
the Wizard of Oz, unable to look forward or back and only able to
maintain.
On the
plane ride back, his son sat across the aisle from him watching a show on his
ipad, and his wife listened to head phones or slept as content as a rabbit in a
vegetable garden. Dr. Marsteller’s
peacefulness felt undeserved, like a knife in his gut. He opened his book on his lap and leaned
back, rubbing his hand over his forehead in frustration. His wife had noticed him with his palm on his
head on several occasions recently.
-What’s the
matter, Sylvester, you’ve been rubbing your head a lot lately.
-Oh, just thinking about all the work I
have to do when I get back.
-Well, take it easy, you’re not back yet.
-All right.
-Seriously, Sylvester, you’ve been going
too hard these last few weeks. You need
to sit back and enjoy your discovery.
You can choose who you want to give a talk to; you don’t need to worry
or spend all your time on the road. It’s
incredible research. Just relax. You don’t have to fight anymore.
-Yeah.
You saying I’m too old for this stress?
He smiled feebly.
-What stress? Your stress is over after this recent
discovery. It’s what you always wanted
to find and now you found it.
-Yeah, it’s something, isn’t it?
-It certainly is. Now don’t tell me you’re having a let down
like they say with world-class athletes after they’ve accomplished everything
in their life.
-I don’t
think that’s a problem.
-Well
okay. Now read your book and stop
rubbing your head like you’re trying to rub something out of your brain.
-All right honey.
Dr. Marsteller sat back and gave the
impression of reading. In reality, he
was still tormented like a barn in a tornado, but he kept it hidden as best he
could.
This originally appeared in Dr. Marsteller