to me.
“Did you tell Dr. Muñoz about this?” I asked.
“Yes, but he made little of it. He was convinced Danny ate shrimp without knowing it.”
I studied the label …
Electric Jolt
Electrolyte Replacement Fluid for Serious Athletes
♥
Made with Minerals from the Sea.
In small print below a picture of a flexed arm with magnificent biceps was the manufacturer’s name:
BioVironics Pharmaceuticals and Neutraceuticals, Germantown, Maryland
.
“May I keep this?” I asked.
Emma nodded.
Germantown, Maryland
. I knew the name well. The day before, I was on the outskirts of Germantown when I received the summons from my supervisor at PAHO to call Randy Flagstaff.
I wondered now whether the town might bring other un-pleasantries in the form of this juice called
Electric Jolt
.
Compared to private colleges, the University of Wisconsin in Madison was a bargain, although I couldn’t have gone there had it not been for work-study. My mother had exhausted her savings to pay for my brother’s education so when it came my time to go to college I had to work my way through bussing dishes, guiding tours, and shelving books. My least favorite task was manning the all-night reading room during exam week. The work was as menial—checking out reserve readings and performing clean-up duties—as it was disruptive of the circadian rhythm. Every hour, I toured the room to keep awake, passing insomniacs and last-minute crammers who hovered over books with bottles of caffeinated tablets beside them. Dawn never came soon enough.
I thought of that job as I flew back to Washington, D.C. after leaving Kristine and Emma. I had driven to the airport directly from Bean Hollow State Park to catch a flight standby, but because the only seats that remained were middle ones, I was sandwiched between two hefty men. In the meantime, behind me, a gaggle of cheerleaders traveling to a competition prevented me from napping. To pass time, I reviewed the slides Muñoz and Bjornstad had presented on Capitol Hill, disturbed still by what I believed were missives personalized to my life.
After deplaning, I placed a call to someone I thought might help explain the elusive missives. Two features convinced me they came from a published source: the precise punctuation—as in the use of commas in
But she, surrendering to …,
and
… he lived under the earth,—
and, as Bjornstad had noted, the spelling of
chimaera
in the missive,
… not that rich chimaera.
In my unabridged dictionary at home, the spelling of “chimaera” was listed as an older, less employed version for “chimera,” making me think the missive had been lifted from a dated work.
I listened now as my phone rang.
“Squills,” a voice answered.
Lawrence P. Squills was a professor of English at the University of Wisconsin. During my sophomore year, I took a course in nineteenth century literature that he taught, a decision I came to regret. Tall and gaunt, he came to class each day with a stack of books under one arm and a pipe dangling from his mouth. He peppered students with questions and searched for those who hadn’t done the readings. When he found his target, he was merciless. For that reason, I did my homework assiduously although it spared me little pain because he discovered one of my innermost angsts: reading aloud. It was a phobia I developed in middle school when a teacher had me read a sonnet aloud before the class. The wires in my brain somehow crossed to produce an anxiety short-circuit. I panted as my heart raced and beads of sweat dripped down my face. I felt like I’d been asked to read a novel rather than fourteen lines. Three-quarters into it, I made the mistake of looking up. A sea of faces gawked at my discomfort.
Thereafter, I did what I could to avoid reading before others: I feigned sore throats, laryngitis, dental problems—
anything
to keep from reading aloud. Professor Squills, having discovered the pathology, insisted I read at almost every
“Did you tell Dr. Muñoz about this?” I asked.
“Yes, but he made little of it. He was convinced Danny ate shrimp without knowing it.”
I studied the label …
Electric Jolt
Electrolyte Replacement Fluid for Serious Athletes
♥
Made with Minerals from the Sea.
In small print below a picture of a flexed arm with magnificent biceps was the manufacturer’s name:
BioVironics Pharmaceuticals and Neutraceuticals, Germantown, Maryland
.
“May I keep this?” I asked.
Emma nodded.
Germantown, Maryland
. I knew the name well. The day before, I was on the outskirts of Germantown when I received the summons from my supervisor at PAHO to call Randy Flagstaff.
I wondered now whether the town might bring other un-pleasantries in the form of this juice called
Electric Jolt
.
Compared to private colleges, the University of Wisconsin in Madison was a bargain, although I couldn’t have gone there had it not been for work-study. My mother had exhausted her savings to pay for my brother’s education so when it came my time to go to college I had to work my way through bussing dishes, guiding tours, and shelving books. My least favorite task was manning the all-night reading room during exam week. The work was as menial—checking out reserve readings and performing clean-up duties—as it was disruptive of the circadian rhythm. Every hour, I toured the room to keep awake, passing insomniacs and last-minute crammers who hovered over books with bottles of caffeinated tablets beside them. Dawn never came soon enough.
I thought of that job as I flew back to Washington, D.C. after leaving Kristine and Emma. I had driven to the airport directly from Bean Hollow State Park to catch a flight standby, but because the only seats that remained were middle ones, I was sandwiched between two hefty men. In the meantime, behind me, a gaggle of cheerleaders traveling to a competition prevented me from napping. To pass time, I reviewed the slides Muñoz and Bjornstad had presented on Capitol Hill, disturbed still by what I believed were missives personalized to my life.
After deplaning, I placed a call to someone I thought might help explain the elusive missives. Two features convinced me they came from a published source: the precise punctuation—as in the use of commas in
But she, surrendering to …,
and
… he lived under the earth,—
and, as Bjornstad had noted, the spelling of
chimaera
in the missive,
… not that rich chimaera.
In my unabridged dictionary at home, the spelling of “chimaera” was listed as an older, less employed version for “chimera,” making me think the missive had been lifted from a dated work.
I listened now as my phone rang.
“Squills,” a voice answered.
Lawrence P. Squills was a professor of English at the University of Wisconsin. During my sophomore year, I took a course in nineteenth century literature that he taught, a decision I came to regret. Tall and gaunt, he came to class each day with a stack of books under one arm and a pipe dangling from his mouth. He peppered students with questions and searched for those who hadn’t done the readings. When he found his target, he was merciless. For that reason, I did my homework assiduously although it spared me little pain because he discovered one of my innermost angsts: reading aloud. It was a phobia I developed in middle school when a teacher had me read a sonnet aloud before the class. The wires in my brain somehow crossed to produce an anxiety short-circuit. I panted as my heart raced and beads of sweat dripped down my face. I felt like I’d been asked to read a novel rather than fourteen lines. Three-quarters into it, I made the mistake of looking up. A sea of faces gawked at my discomfort.
Thereafter, I did what I could to avoid reading before others: I feigned sore throats, laryngitis, dental problems—
anything
to keep from reading aloud. Professor Squills, having discovered the pathology, insisted I read at almost every
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