Episode 003 Previous Episode	Next Episode
“The average PhD thesis is nothing but a transference of bones from one graveyard to another.” J. Frank Dobie When the tall, blonde woman stormed into the history department office, all the talking stopped. She stood in the doorway in a gray suit, her hair down her back, an angry look in her eyes. She shut the door forcefully and walked passed the square secretary’s desk in the center of the cluster of office towards the far back, nearly shoving open the door that read ‘Edgar Blain, PhD’. Inside was a spacious office with the blinds closed on a large window. Sitting at a cherry red oak desk was an older man, his AppleGeeks tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looked up with a patient smile as she entered, not reacting as she slammed the door shut. “What, the hell?” she demanded, holding out a single sheet of paper with names and dates on it. “Sydney, I’m sorry,” he began calmly. “Your thesis defense has to go last. That’s just the department’s policy.” “Pointer,” she said, pointing at herself. “Sydney Pointer. That goes about in the middle of the alphabet, a bit towards the end. And because the defenses started at Z this year, it would make logical sense that I would be going sooner rather than later.” “Departmental rules,” Edgar maintained. Sydney looked ready to explode with frustration. She held her hands up, her fingers clawing into fists. But with a forceful exhale, she threw her hands down. She sighed hopelessly. “I just, I just want to get this done with,” she said, slumping down into the chair in front of his desk. “I’ve been eating, breathing, sleeping, dreaming, this damn thesis for the past year. I want to get it done with and be done with it.” “Believe me, I understand,” Edgar said, rising from his chair, coming around the desk to join her in the other chair. In the comfortably lit room full of bookshelves, the two sat alone, Sydney looking too exhausted to be furious. “I had to jump through the same hoops when I gave my doctoral defense here. It even ended up getting pushed to the next semester.” “Yeah, you told me,” she complained, staring at nothing. Edgar smiled. “You know, for a dame, you certainly can be explosive.” Sydney’s anger broke just enough for her to snort angrily. “Explosive qualities make dames the best knights.” Edgar chuckled and stood. “Come on,” he said. “It’s Thursday. The pub’s happy hour lasts until eight. Let’s go celebrate.” “Celebrate what?” she asked. Edgar stopped halfway through putting on his jacket. He looked around the room, finally glancing at the table lamp at the end of the desk. “Light,” he said stalwartly. “We shall celebrate light in all its glorious…lightyness.” Sydney stared at him for a moment before a mischievous smile cracked on her face. “Sounds like a plan.” Edgar picked up the two bottles from the bar tender and turned around just as two frat boys went rushing in front of him. He stopped nimbly, holding up his hands to keep from spilling the beer, then continued onward to the small booth Sydney had claimed towards the corner of the pub. In the mostly-underground dungeon of a restaurant, the sounds of a hundred different conversations echoed off the stone walls while the dim lighting added to the timeless ambience. Edgar sat down across from Sydney, his well-trimmed goatee shadowing by the candle light at the end of the table. “To university bull,” he said, holding up the beer bottle. “The only limitless resource in the universe.” “It’s a resource?” Sydney asked with a laugh. “Well, if they could figure out how to power cars with it, we’d be in good shape,” he retorted after a sip from the bottle. He looked out at the rowdy crowd and sighed. “The future of this great country.” He turned back to Sydney. “If I see one more idiot with the collar of his polo shirt popped up, I think I’m just going to smack him up side the head.” “Can you believe that’s in style right now?” she asked cynically, stuffing a lemon in her beer. Edgar just scoffed. “So what do you think of my thesis?” “I think I didn’t understand a word of it,” Edgar said, sipping his beer like a sophomore. “The idea of there being a socio-historical basis for brain washing throughout history seems both farfetched and fartherfetched.” “The brain is like a Brooklyn couple, and the brain washing signals is like the Cuban culture,” Sydney explained academically. Edgar blinked, already lost. “The right brain is the woman,” Sydney went on, “she wants style, emotion, and to watch her soap operas regularly. The left brain is the man; he’s methodical, wants numbers, and to be left the hell alone during the Pennet Race as long as the Giants are playing.” “The Giants are football, dear,” Edgar corrected. “Now, in general, these two sides of the brain don’t do quite as much communicating as most people might think,” Sydney continued, undaunted. “Sure the family looks good on the outside, the lawn’s mowed, they pay their taxes, etc. But inside, the husband and wife are both trapped in a loveless marriage and barely communicate with each other, even though both want the same thing, which is more and better sex.” “So, the wife, the right brain, goes off and meets Ricardo,” she said with a Spanish dash. Edgar sat forward, sitting his chin comically on his hands as he listened with mock attentiveness. “He’s the sexy Cuban dance instructor down at the civic center. Ricardo has a profound impact on the entire family even though the left brain, and often times, the right brain, doesn’t know it. The wife starts going to the dance classes but she also starts learning Spanish, listening to Cuban music, and cooking Cuban food. Cuban culture ingratiates itself into the family at just about every level. And all of a sudden,” Sydney said, leaning back, “the family’s entire life has changed. All because of signals sent to the right brain that the left brain didn’t know about.” Edgar blinked. “You do understand I didn’t follow a word of that, right?” “What are you and Melissa doing this weekend?” Sydney asked as she and Edgar walked across the university parking lot. “Oh, we’re going to go see a movie, then have dinner,” he said with a smile. In the lush streetlight over the parking lot, the warm late-spring air felt refreshing. “A good, old-fashioned date; Dinner and a movie.” “With your wife no less,” Sydney smiled, stepping in front of her car. “Sounds nice.” Edgar looked at the dark blue sedan, then at Sydney. “What about you? When are you going to get back on the dating scene?” “When my thesis defense is over,” she retorted. But she slumped up against her car, sighing, her hands in her coat pockets. “I don’t know. It’s hard for me to meet guys. They’re all intimidated that I can bench press more than they can or that I’m trying to get my masters or that I can beat them at Call of Duty.” Edgar smirked. “Most knights have a hard time meeting women because women think chivalry is dead.” He looked sympathetically at Sydney. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be for a dame.” He leaned in, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Yeah, good night,” she said as he headed to his car. In the darkness of the parking lot, she lingered, crossing her arms as she looked around in her loneliness.
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