The success of Gruber's Labs newest contribution to the scientific community reverberated through the sterile halls unchecked as the revelers downed their intoxicating concoctions in wild abandon. Apparently the small gelatinous mass I irreverently referred to as flubber, had been successful in restoring the neurological damage an ambulatory construction worker sustained during a substantial fall some months back. I guess I should have been happy too, but had declined the party invitation in hopes of completing my rounds early to catch the tail end of the Raiders game. With virtually no idea of the ramifications of the experiments success, I chose to remain blissfully ignorant knowing that too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing to a tired mind as my own.
Old man Gruber had hired me right after my accounting position of 28-long years had been downsized into a miniscule pension. My wife left shortly thereafter with a smooth talking real estate agent who probably got his start selling hot cars. She left me with ungodly payments on our maxed out credit cards and the certain knowledge that my genitalia was at the bottom of the under privileged pile in her opinion. Bitter yet relieved, I set about quietly restoring my financial credibility while attempting to smother my deflated ego. That was four years ago, and although I've secured my financial respectability again, my ego never fully recovered. Several frustrating nights at the local strip clubs had convinced me that my personal life was best left to my imagination.
Working as a custodian has its perks; although the hours are long at times, there's relatively little pressure and plenty of free time to converse with the menagerie of scientists and lab techs that scurry to and fro. At times condescending, they seem to enjoy their coexistence with a subservient lower life form, and often bestow whatever leftovers they possessed from food to technological trinkets.
Several other coworkers - like the secretary Susan, a middle aged mother with three kids and a no load mate; Roger, my counterpart and great friend; and of course Mr. Druber, the head of the think tank and his somewhat ditzy niece Dawn, who had just gotten hired on out of some University back east - all treated me as a real person.
The events that were to change my life began to unfold early the next morning as a dark overcast began to drizzle. The street lights were beginning to flick off as I unlocked the front door and sloshed into the lounge with a dripping coat and squeaky shoes. Roger was sitting at one of the shiny tables savoring a warm cup of Joe with his eyes half closed. Roger and I had bonded almost immediately and spent much of our free time together as he lived just a few doors away from me in the apartments that had seen better days. We spent many long hours together tapping brews while enjoying football games on the tube as his "main squeeze" terrorized the bargain bins at the nearby mall. An avid reader, Roger was always interesting with his witty anecdotes and philosophical revelations of the meaning of life. We talked about the persistent recurring stain under the long stainless work table in lab two, and the problem light fixture on the second floor before excusing ourselves to our separate paths – Roger to his pre-warmed bed with Gladys and me to the second floor buffing duties.
Absent mindedly, I went through my well rehearsed procedure of making a new pot of coffee for the crew; especially Susan, who could easily down half the pot before her eyelids remained open. As I turned, there stood Dawn with the most bloodshot eyes I had ever seen. Her reputation as a hardcore party babe would definitely be in question when her coworkers saw her this morning. It wasn't until later that I learned the old man had given everyone a day off to recover from their brain numbing binge the evening before. Dawn had confided in me on several occasions on her life's inconsistencies as I was non-threatening and could truly feign interest while staring at the two perky globes that pushed her lab coat away from her otherwise anorexic figure. I kept her confidence while realizing many of her dilemmas were self-induced brain fade so inherent in the young.
"Hiya Bob," she slurred as she pulled the oversized sunglasses from her pale face.
"Morning Dawn," I drawled trying to conceal the snicker that was forming in my throat. "Raining yet?"
"Haven't noticed," she offered meekly as she moved towards the coffee maker like a fly towards the porch light.
"I got some pills down at Hanks pharmacy that just might help if you'd like me to get them for you," I offered; "They're all natural and non-addicting."
She studied me for a moment and licked her lips slowly as she struggled to stay on her feet. "Yeah, I'd like that."
I was able to suppress my laughter once out of the lounge, but couldn't help but think of what an easy lay she'd be under the influence. Although skinny by most any frame of reference, she still was attractive with her delicate features and long blond hair. I grabbed the pill bottle that was safely nestled between my vitamins and ibuprofen and returned to find the same pale figure losing the balance battle. Helping her to the nearest chair I shook a couple of pills into her palm and handed her the coffee. With nary a glance she downed the pharmaceuticals and chased them with a noisy slurp of Joe emitting a barely audible burp to complete the performance. I smiled and patted her hand in a fatherly way, as she stared at the concentric circles the coffee was making in the small Styrofoam cup.
As I turned to leave her to her misery, she blurted out "Don't go just yet Bob . . . please?" The pain in her voice was unmistakable. I temporarily abandoned my thoughts and warily sat across from her hoping secretly her stomach was settled and her resolve sound. She started sobbing softly, and my nurturing instincts kicked in.
"What's happing, Dawn," I queried sincerely.
She sniffled and produced a wrinkled hanky, taking a lifetime to blow out her nasal passages before letting her red eyes meet mine.
"I'm sorry," she muttered.
I paused for a moment, trying to analyze the best approach – as a therapist, a friend, or as father easily being twice her age.
"I'm afraid the BSP is a long way from perfection, and I'm responsible," she blurted.
Forget the therapist and sibling approach; I'm going to tackle this as a friend, I thought. "OK Dawn," I sighed, "let's get to the bottom of this but try to keep your terminology on the secondary level, would you? What is a BSP?" I reached out slowly and took her hands in mine.
She hesitated and wiped her nose sloppily as if she was more accustomed to a sleeve than a hanky.
"Three years ago," she began, "My Uncle, your boss, discovered the proper chemical sequencing in the human neurological system and through gene splicing was able to perfect a compound that would repair the damaged neural sequencing required to effect movement. When I joined on, I had a theory for creating a symbiotic life form that could live on the unused chemicals the human body normally stores – hence the term biological symbiotic parasite or BSP. We hoped to create a life form that could be applied to skin near the damaged neural system, for example on the spinal column, and once the BSP integrated with the hosts unique chemistry, the integrated neural compounds would repair and sustain the damaged system, restoring the subject to their former levels of dexterity. The ramifications of such a discovery are staggering."
She paused to slurp down some more Joe and continued; "Just recently, our grants have expired and we've been operating on borrowed funds which will soon be exhausted. In an effort to accelerate our research, I incorporated several untested theories into the life form. For several weeks, the subject showed unparalleled recovery, but this morning when I made my rounds, I found he had regressed to his former state and the BSP was lifeless on the chair next to him.
"Sure it wasn't sleeping?"
"Yes, the normal gelatinous mass was dried and shriveled."
"Maybe it's malnourished."
