The Mentor

by Pat Connid

  On rare occasions, she gets to tag along with a field producer who needs an extra set of hands for a shoot somewhere. A few months ago, when I bumped into her at a Disturbed concert at Lakewood Amphitheater, we talked for about twenty minutes in the beer line.

  Steve Martin, the comedian who used to be funny, wrote a pretty good autobiography. In it, he told a story about the greatest of TV hosts, Johnny Carson who'd leaned over to him, going to commercial break, and said, "You'll use everything you ever knew."

  That guy was brilliant.

  Then, I remembered the woman back at the police station in Marietta and hoped things had worked out for her. It'd be nice if Jay Leno were incarcerated and couldn't do the show anymore. Johnny would have wanted it that way.

  I walked through the revolving door of a glass atrium a few moments after Pavan assured me he'd keep the motor running. I subsequently assured him that wouldn't be necessary but, his car, he was the deciding vote.

  "Try not to look suspicious," I'd said, holding open the passenger side door.

  "We're in Nashville, and I’m from El Salvador. Unless I'm washing dishes, I look suspicious."

  "You'll be fine," I said, confirming the numbers on the building up the street matched the ones on the print out in my hand. "Just act a little, you know, 'Country.'"

  "I am a little bit country," he said. "And, you know, a little bit--"

  I'd slammed the door before he could finish. Low hanging fruit. Seriously.

  Inside the offices of Solomon-Bluth, the young guy with the thirty dollar haircut greeted me pleasantly enough, and I gave him my real name but fake employer (the Atlanta news network), in case there were any instance where I had to whip out an I.D., not that I expected that.

  "Hey, I was just burnin' through here coming back from St. Louis where we were doing a story, a feature piece, on the family of one of the Doctors Without Borders guys."

  "Oh," he said, and put his thin hand to his chest. "I love those guys. Very brave, every one of them."

  "Absolutely. And their families have to be brave, too. Any given day that phone could ring, right?"

  "Oh, wow. Yeah."

  "So, they're like the unsung heroes, in a way. The, uh, ‘wind beneath their wings’ sort of people. They worry constantly but no one even knows their names."

  He blinked a couple times, his eyes a little damp.

  "You'll have to tell me when that runs, that's really beautiful, Dexter," he said and switched gears, got to business. "What can we do for you here?"

  I nodded, looked around-- I had no idea how a producer "scoped" out a potential interview and tried to look a little distracted, constantly.

  "Same sort of vein, right? Solomon-Bluth puts millions towards all sorts of great causes--"

  "Absolutely, Solomon-Bluth is synonymous with medical advancements and achievements for the food and financially insecure," he said, a veritable talking brochure. "Folks in this country are worried about having health insurance, and they have every right to be. But we've got people on this planet worried about dying from diseases we cured fifty years ago!"

  Leaning in, I said quietly, turned my total focus to the young man who, according to the small, upright nameplate, was called Timothy.

  "Timothy, you see… I don't mean for this to sound cold, and I swear it's not… but you say Solomon-Bluth is synonymous with medical advancements and achievements for the food and financially insecure, and I don't think many people realize that."

  His face drooped a little. Sad clown, I'd popped a balloon.

  "Oh."

  "Well," I said, smiling. "We need to change that right? That’s why I stopped by. I knew you guys had a regional here in Nashville. Maybe your company can be part of our series?"

  He lit up. "Wow." Then: "But you guys just did a big piece on Mr. Bluth a couple months back. Some of my counterparts at the home office got on T.V., even. It was very exciting. I’m not sure--"

  "No," I said, dancing as fast as I could, "this wouldn't be told in the light of, you know, coloring within the lines as we worked up a sketch on a national figure like Mr. Bluth."

  "International figure."

  "Absolutely. This, again, would be along the unsung lines-- we love people like the big man there-- but there are a lot of little folks who never get the limelight."

  A slow nod. Closer.

  "And, this office in particular,” I continued, “some of your recent work has not gone unnoticed. At least not by my colleagues and me."

  The nod continued for a moment and stopped.

  "What work? Us?"

  "Yes," I said through a terrified smile, beaming brightly. "This office here, ol' Nashville regional for Solomon-Bluth. Your work here, well we were just talking about it a few weeks back, maybe a month or two ago, in the past year or so… in the newsroom." I wondered if my teeth were sweating. "I'll admit, and we're supposed to be impartial, but you've got a lot of fans over there on the fifth floor."

  His eyes grew for a moment.

  "Oh my,” he hooded his eyes, then lifted a hand to cover his mouth. “You're talking about the coffee mite eradiation project in Patrocinio."

  "YES. That is… right? Exactly."

  "Brazil? How do you all know we were heading that up out of this office? That, Dexter is supposed to be a semi-secret. Or at least not really public knowledge because everyone at Solomon-Bluth, all the offices, you know, is a part of the coffee mite project. Sure, we’re lead project managers. You know, make the big decisions, and push the funds. The buck stops here."

  "Ha, right. Well, well, right? We're, you know, I know because, right? It's news and, I’m a news person. So, we know all about it!"

  He stood up and walked to the wall, proudly pointing out a row of black and white photographs.

  “Here are your unsung heroes.” Waving me over, his face beaming, he said: "These are some of our people-- out of this office-- down in Patrocinio and the outlying area. You know, years ago the local farmers were told to introduce phytoseiid mites to the coffee beans!"

  I shook my head.

  "One mite to take out another mite,” he said. “You want to put a creature, a bug, essentially, into an ecosystem that doesn’t belong there-- I don't care if the darn thing cured heart-break-- not on our watch!"

  "See, what a mess that could have been. You guys-- so great."

  The next several photos showed tall, white people with clipboards and huge floppy hats, posing with little brown folks who looked like they just wanted to get back to planting, sowing, picking coffee and being away from assholes for a while.

  "Here's an aerial shot. Look how low he is!"

  "Amazing."

  "That, I think… yes, that's the third application of the insecticide, an herbal of course, developed in our state of the art lab-- we're just testing it on one farm right now and the farmer has been totally compensated, trust me. But, so far"-- he crossed his fingers-- "so good."

  Timothy named a couple people and looked at me as if I should be writing it down. I assured him that my memory was rather good, never forget a name.

  The farther down the wall one walked, the older the pictures. The last one of the set he stopped at and grinned wide again. And again, the hand went back to the chest.

  "Oh, that's the very first day of the project…" he continued on for about three or four minutes. My subconscious was taking it all down but my here-and-now conscious needed a break from the coffee bug talk.

  It's funny. I have no idea how long I'd been staring but it'd obviously been long enough to warrant an explanation.

  "Ah ha! Those are the real, original heroes. Those three men, for years, were responsible for, oh gosh, vaccines and antibiotics and herbicides, insecticides! That was the most expensive private lab ever built."

  "I… yeah?"

  Timothy pointed to the row below and said something about the new lab and some of the similar accomplishments.

  "The same sort of work, very productive but, between you and me… don
't put this in the piece or anything… but it's a far cry from that first effort. The first lab."

  "What happened to--"

  "Fire. Huge fire, took the whole place with it. There were supposed to be precautions but, you know, it's a lab. A lot of things that can go boom, right?" The forced smile left his face. "And the man on the right, there?"

  Yes. The man on the right there.

  Yes.

  Him, I knew him.

  "He went up with the place," Timothy said, his voice quieter. "Tried to put it out, everybody else got out but him. He literally died for the research."

  Yes. Something in my brain said: Yes, he did. I think he did.

  I must have asked the man's name because Timothy told it to me but it wasn't the name I knew. That man I remembered. Most of that memory, lost, buried, I had only fragments. But I recognized his face.

  Archimedes and Newton probably know him now, too, because for some reason I was sure he was dead.

  Yes. I recognized that face.

  I recognized my old college professor. Professor Jepson.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Back at the Dvoraks, I had to quickly turn the alarm off as my friend burst through the front door looking to drain the two big gulps he'd had on the way back from Nashville.

  "Ay carbón," Pavan jumped back from the front door and fell into me. "You have got fat, rabid squirrels in the lady's house!" I pushed him back up, toward the "squirrels" (which had begun to purr), into the dark house.

  With the click of the light switch, a medium-sized chandelier came to light and the two cats leapt from Pavan, who'd begun high-stepping like a man walking on coals, and began to warm my feet.

  "Hey Rummels," I said and felt my chest soften a little. "Hey other Rummels."

  "What the fuuu'…?" He hadn’t seen the kitties in all their whirling-dervish glory earlier that day.

  "My guard cats," I said and looked down at the two of them, each alternating in looking up at me. "Lemme check their dishes. You mind feeding Toby real quick?"

  Pavan calmed down after his scare with the kitties and seemingly forgot all about having to go the bathroom so badly. At least, I'd hoped he'd simply forgotten.

  Heading into the garage he muttered to himself, "These people are some crazy people with half-dog, half-bears and squirrel-cats. They must be rescue animals or something because…"

  I flipped on a couple more lights and tried to convince myself that I was just doing my job, as a house-sitter, checking out the house. But, each dark corner stole a little breath and each new light calmed my stomach. Thankfully, my writhing slippers were close at hand if I needed any protection.

  They hadn't needed anymore food-- I'd gone overboard anyhow, plenty left. I refilled the water dish and plopped onto the couch. The cats lost themselves in the kitchen for a moment, and I had a quiet moment.

  Stillness.

  I tried to relax, wind down, because we'd need some sleep because, after seeing a photo of my old professor (with a different name?) at Solomon-Bluth, we were heading to the Georgia Science Academy, my Alma Mater, the next day.

  Everything inside me wanted to collapse, fall asleep, but I'd left the place a bit of a mess and didn't feel that I could totally--

  Wait a minute.

  On the coffee table in front of me, the notes, doodles, grocery lists were all scattered. One of the papers had been crumpled, even.

  "Dog-bear is fed and happy," Pavan said, returning with a goofy grin. "Toby, I like. Not sure about the rat-squirrels. Too freaky."

  Pavan dropped onto the reclining chair and yanked the lever, kicking his feet up, as if he'd done it a million times in the house. A relaxation pro, my friend could have found a way to chill on the Titanic, ten minutes after it sank.

  Obviously, my rattled aura or jumpy chakras was rippling his zen-Lazy-Boy experience.

  "What's wrong?"

  "What do you mean what's wrong?" I said, slowly sifting through my papers, trying to remember what I'd left there.

  "Your face is all scrunchy."

  I looked over at Pavan. "Man, your eyes are closed how can you tell my face is all scrunchy?"

  Not even lifting his hands from the arm rests, he pushed both his thumbs toward his ears. "I can hear your face being scrunchy. You remember all the words and dog farts you've ever heard--"

  "Whatever."

  "--me, I can hear scrunchy faces. So," he said cracking open one eye. "What's up?"

  Of course, I'd told him earlier about my encounter with the Phi Beta Ass Kicker, but detailed it now again much slower. In part for him but I think mostly for me, trying to recall exactly what I may have missed.

  "So, she thought I'd left, I suppose. When I came in, she must have jumped back into the shadows but I'm guessing," I said, looking down at the nine or ten sheets of paper, "she had been going through… this."

  Pavan leaned forward and snapped the footstool in place, nearly being launched into the kitchen in the process. When he recovered, it took a moment, he dropped to his knees onto the carpet and looked at the papers.

  "This is, like, grocery lists and weird drawings and--"

  "They're not weird! It's just freehand, doodling stuff."

  Pavan raised his hand and said, "Oh my God."

  I caught my breath and looked at the paper he'd locked onto.

  "You bought cabbage? Why would you buy cabbage?"

  Snatching my grocery list back, I said, "I like cabbage."

  "It's smells like balls. Old man balls. Old man balls after an old man played handball at the YMCA with old man balls."

  I eyed my friend. "There is some trouble in your past, son, that you have never told me about. You should talk to somebody about it. Not me, but somebody."

  "I tell you I never fucking ate cabbage in my past. Nasty."

  The cats darted through the room and up next to me on the couch. As I pet them, I felt myself moving closer and closer to sleep.

  "So the hot chick comes in here and goes through your lists and doodles. Why would she do that?"

  "Dunno."

  "Maybe she took something, right? Like your Publisher's Clearing House entry or something," he said, then rubbed the scruff on his chin that I knew took, pitifully, three or four days to grow. "What do you have, some sort of paper-thing, that a hot, mean chick and a crazy, ninja black dude would want?"

  The cats switched places, crossing my lap at the same time, and Pavan let out a laugh like only a lifelong stoner can.

  "Yeah, they're cool, huh?" I said, and then turned back to his thought. "Okay, a document, right? What sort of document would I have that people would want?"

  "We have the police report from the van."

  "Public record. If they took it, we could get another. If they wanted a copy, they could just go pay for it." Sleepy, I looked down at the papers again. What was I missing?

  Pavan said, "Do you have anything, you save anything over the years that someone might hear about and goes, 'hey I want that.'"

  Pavan and I went back and forth for a few more minutes like this and it got more ludicrous at each step. He was into it, sure, but I only was playing along to see if it would ever end.

  I realized it wouldn't. Minutes later, still at it:

  "Okay, so did you ever get like a painting at a garage sale one time and give it to your mom or something and, maybe, there's like a copy of the Declaration of the Independents back, underneath--"

  "No," I said. "Seriously?"

  Pavan shrugged, finally giving up. We made plans to get up when the sun was warm-- neither of us are usually big alarm clock users-- and he headed upstairs to the guest bedroom. My body was still sore from the long trip in the car but despite that, I'd planned on sleeping on the couch likely adding a few more aches and knots to my body.

  Truth was, the kitties were all settled in and I didn't have the heart to move them.

  Hours later, it seemed hours later at least, the dream came back, the one on the day of Ruthie's funeral.

>   But, the… the reception was bad. I'm not sure how else to say it, so there it is. The dream fluttered in and out, interrupted by other images, flashes of light, moments of… water?

  It was familiar like a sort of déjà-vu. Yet, even straddling between wakefulness and sleep, I knew it wasn’t. It's memory. Memory searching for the cracks, trying to come back.

  So strange. After all this time, it was coming back. Why now?

  After the crash, the one where I killed my sister, I had to recover from some head trauma. Not like a linebacker nailed me before the snap, more like the entire D-line of a pro football team blitzed and hit me on the crown of my head.

  There were a bunch of different names for it that they threw at me, which only told me they really didn't exactly know what it was. Post-traumatic brain injury was one but so cumbersome I've rarely said it aloud.

  The one I hated the least was retrograde amnesia or just RA. It was unnecessarily explained to me that RA had hidden the memory of the accident and events leading up to it. I knew that's what happened to me because any recollection of that day, that year and a lot of the previous year, were gone. Not gone, hidden. A blind spot. All of it.

  I'd lost the time from the crash all the way back to a couple weeks after I'd started at Georgia Science Academy. Returning there a couple times, trying to patch together the previous years, shame would surge through me when a friend from school would approach me. Back then, I couldn’t recall more than two or three people-- and then, still, with the RA, I barely knew them.

  Over the past several weeks, though, so much was coming back.

  Soon, I’d remember the crash, when I’d killed my sister.

  Ruthie died because I couldn't control the car we were in. The pain, shame, pitiful looks hurt and I wanted it to hurt.

  I'd failed her.

  Falling deeper into sleep…

  Another flash, more clearly, more brilliantly and this time a sound-- a sickly crack, like an arm breaking.

  Years ago, investigators cleared me of wrong doing, in part, because the one surviving witness couldn’t remember what had happened. The investigators chided me when they'd learned I'd shunned some conditioning therapy that might help me get my memories back. Learned response sort of stuff-- think bells and drooling dogs, rats in mazes looking for food-- that sort of thing.