Page 30 of Love, Theoretically
“What I don’t get is... what’s the point of building abstract theories that are not even bound by the laws of nature?” says the guy nextto Cole. He’s wearing a long-sleeved tee that reads “Physics and Chill” in theShrekfont. I kinda love it.
“Experiments are way more useful.” Another dude. In the first row.
“You only care about whatmightbe, but not what actuallyis.” Dude, of course. This time from the third row. “The possible applications are always an afterthought.”
Many students nod. So do I, because I can read them like a large-print edition. I know the exact Elsie they want.
Time to bring this home.
“What you guys are saying is that theoretical physics doesn’t always end in a product. And to that, all I can say is... I agree. Physics is like sex: it may yield practical results, but often that’s notwhywe do it.”At least that’s what Feynman once said. He’s also on record as calling women worthless bitches, but we’ll let it slide since his quote made you laugh.“How many of you are experimentalists?” Almost all hands shoot up, and Cole’s the highest. I’m depressingly unsurprised. “The truth is, you guys are right. Theoristsdofocus on mathematical models and abstract concepts. But they do it hoping that experimentalists like you will come across our theories and decide to prove us right.”Ugh.I want a shower and a bar of industrial-strength soap. “And that’s why I want to talk with you guys about my theories on Wigner crystallization. So that I can hear your opinions and improve through your feedback. I don’t know when theorists and experimentalists became rivals, but physics is not about competition—it’s about collaboration. You’re free to make up your mind, and I’m not going to try and convince you thatyouneed my theories. I will acknowledge, however, thatIneed your experiments.” Am I laying it on too thick? Nope. Well, yes. But the grads love it. They nod. They murmur. A couple of them grin smugly.
It’s my cue to unsheathe my warmest smile. “Does that answer your question, Cole?”
It does. Cole’s ravenous ego has been sufficiently fed with scraps of my dignity. Oh, the things I do for healthcare and pension funds matching. “Yes, Elsie. Thank you for addressing my concerns.”
Dickbag.“Excellent.” I push away from the table and walk back to the podium. “I’msoexcited to tell you about Wigner crystallization. Feel free to interrupt again at any point, because what you take out of the lecture, that’s what matters.” A beat. Then I deliver my final blow. “Unless you multiply it by the speed of light. In which case itenergies.”
Aaand, scene.
I lift my eyes just as Volkov starts wheezing. Beside him, Monica gives me a delighted look: her gladiator, making her proud. I allow the students a few seconds to groan at my cheesy, dorky pun that they secretly love because—who doesn’t? “Thank you, I’ll be here all week.” Groans turn into chuckles.
And that’s when I let myself look at Jack. My chin lifts, just a millimeter.I told you you’d regret taking me on, Dr. Smith-Turner.
Jack stares back, expressionless. Not smiling. Not frowning. Not gritting his teeth. He just stares, in what I really hope is a reassessment of my threat to his physics domination plan. To his precious George. It’s fleeting, and I’m probably imagining it, but I could almost swear that I spot a twinkle in the blue slice of his eye.
I shelve it as a win and get started with my talk.
•••
After the teaching demonstration I could use a nap, but my day is booked full. I have a meeting with the dean of the School of Science, a pleasant guy who sips coffee from a tentacle mug that has me pondering his porn preferences. Then there’s aninformal lunch with two physics profs—clearly a couple having a lovers’ spat, which results in me staring at my salad while they bicker over someone named Raul. Afterward I get a five-minute bathroom break (spent figuring out whether my insulin pod is acting up or I’m just a dumpster fire of paranoia) followed by one-on-one interviews.
One-on-ones are, of course, what I’m best at. It’s simple math: being the Elsie one person wants is much easier than negotiating between the Elsies twelve different people demand. These interviews are ostensibly for me to ask questions about the department that will help me decide whether to accept an offer, but let’s not forget that (1) my current job situation is a bukkake of shit, and (2) carrying out interviews qualifies as academic service, and academics hate service with the intensity of a thousand quasars.
Luckily, I’m a pro at making people feel like time spent with me is not wasted. Dr. Ikagawa uses inflatable yoga balls instead of chairs—not ideal in a pencil skirt, but conducive to bonding conversation over our core and upper-body routines. Dr. Voight has been on hold with his dental insurance for hours, and when I let him spend our fifteen minutes fighting them on the phone, he looks like he could kiss me. I trap a mosquito that’s been infesting Alvarez’s office and make a lifelong friend. I workshop Dr. Albritton’s syllabus; laugh with Dr. Deol about his son’s third-grade teacher, who still thinks Pluto is a planet; nod as Dr. Sader sips on a Capri Sun while rambling about dark matter being not a clump but a smoothly distributed wavy superfluid.
It’s going well, I tell myself as a gangly grad student tasked with escorting me around takes me to my seventh interview of the day.I am projecting affability. Collegiality. Desirabili—
“Here it is,” she says in front of a black door.
I stare at the name plaque for a second. Briefly consider defacing it. Resist my base impulses and tell her, “I think there might be a mistake. My itinerary says that my next meeting is with Dr. Pereira.”
Was I looking forward to it after what I overheard last night? No. But since I cannot report him or his buddy to HR without admitting that I broke into a restroom, I was fully ready to make him uncomfortable with passive-aggressive questions about whether he’d be willing to take over my classes if I were to start a family.
It’s not like I’m ever getting his vote, anyway.
“There was a change to Dr. Pereira’s slots. Jack—I mean, Dr. Smith-Turner—is going to be your last interview.”
Maybe I was a baby-seal clubber in a past life. Or a Wall Street CEO. It would explain my luck. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” She clears her throat. “Dr. Hannaway, I wanted to say... you’re such an inspiration. When you won thatForbesaward—well, hardly any physicist ever does, not to mention women. Also, I was in your teaching demonstration today. You were so poised and assertive. Cole’s a huge prick, and...” She flushes. “Anyway, it was inspiring.”
“I—” I flush, too. “I don’t know what to—” She scurries away before I can stammer the rest of the sentence.
Was she making fun of me? Does someonereallyfind me inspiring? Even though I spend my life pretzeling my personality to avoid being hated? Even though I am the fraudiest of impostors?
It doesn’t matter. I sigh and knock on the worst door in all of Boston. “Come,” a deep voice says, and I resignedly let myself in.
I don’t look around Jack’s office. I refuse to care if it’s well lit, or wallpapered in brocade, or a pigsty—though, tragically, I do notice that it smells nice. Soap and books and wood and coffee and Jack, the scent of him but in intense, deconstructed notes. Becauseapparently I know his scent by now, which makes me want to tear my olfactory glands out of my nostrils. Bah.