Chapter 8: It's a Science

By 3am the party had peaked and was starting its inevitable decay into hazy memory and intestinal regret. The energy and spirit that had seemed so boundless only an hour before were waning as the dazzling array of synthetic materials started to lose their effects.

The police had come and gone, advising that the stereo be turned down to a tolerable level on threat of confiscation, and for the empty bottles and silver goon bags to be cleared from the sidewalk on threat of fines. Those remaining out the front half-heartedly yet dutifully picked up litter while Alby saw to the stereo. In any event the efforts of the police were merely token. People had already disappeared into the night, making use of the taxi rank around the corner, and the once packed house was now reduced to the usual suspects, occupants, sleepers and one or two unlikely novices.

            Karl had received a series of drunken messages from Leigh that started out abusive, then apologetic, then upset, then pining for his return. Despite the best efforts of his friends to convince him otherwise, Karl was determined to go to her. Piers got in the taxi alongside him, telling the others that he would try his best to convince Karl that he was making a foolish mistake, even though everyone knew words would be futile.

Yoshi and Marshall remained behind on the veranda, unwilling to commit to their beds while there was still the threat of new and exciting experiences to be had. They sat on the railing with their backs to the street talking to Alby and Zach who were sprawled out across one of the couches.

The other band members and a few other artists of ill repute were huddled on the chairs on the other side of the veranda dissecting, analysing, tearing apart all of the nuances of the gig; the writing, playing, sequencing. Alby and Zach chose not to participate in the ritual of aggrandisement and passive-aggressive pleas for affirmation, preferring to remain quietly confident in their own abilities and performances. This wasn’t the right occasion for such discussions.

Instead they engaged their guests in discussion of their own vocation. Yoshi and Marshall found themselves in the unforseen position of being novelties in a crowd of creativity, those impossibly cool and charismatic kids who dictate the fashions, slang and aesthetics of the near future. They were a portal to a completely alien way of thinking- one of logic and method above style and intuition.

            Yoshi and Marshall got caught up telling stories of their world- of lab coats, cells and genes. While their progress was nearly identical Yoshi was three years the elder, having worked as a research assistant prior to starting his thesis. Marshall had gone straight from high school into uni, into Honours, and then, against his intentions, straight into a PhD. In any event they were now working together researching prostate cancer.

            While their work was clear in their own minds, it was an altogether different prospect to explain their work to people outside their field. They had often heard it said that the biggest challenge facing scientists is not so much the research itself but trying to communicate that research to a lay audience, and this was an idiom they knew to be true. Their world of research was often so insular that talking about it in terms of the bigger picture was a strenuous form of intellectual gymnastics, and the inherent jargon made it nigh on impossible for novices to completely wrap their heads around.

            “So, what is it that you do?” Zach asked.

            “Umm, we’re medical researchers.”

            “Prostate cancer.”

            Zach sat up in his chair suddenly more interested in the direction of the conversation.

            “Oh yeah, I remember Piers saying something like that.”

            “Yeah? Well, we try to see what causes the cancer in the first place. The genes involved and stuff like that.”

            “Ha! That’s awesome.” Zach leant forward. “How do you do even that?”

            “Well, we use special mice and cells that lack certain genes we think may be involved in cancer.”

“Wait, doesn’t each cell have the same genes? Aren’t all our genetics different from each other?”

Yoshi shifted in his seat. “Yeah they are, but only a very small percentage of genes are different between you and me- just enough to make us different. And yes each cell in the body has the same genes, but the way organs perform their jobs, the way the stomach is different to the liver say, is by different sub-sets of genes being turned on and off in each cell type.”

“Huh. So how do you examine these genes?”

            Marshall took over. “By deleting specific genes we can compare the results with what we see in normal cells, and from that maybe find new ways of treating the cancer.”

            “Wait, what do you mean by ‘deleting genes’?” Zach’s interest had been piqued.

            Marshall rubbed his palms on his jeans. “Well, there are ways of deleting specific genes in specific tissues in mice, and in cells in a dish.”

“Holy shit!”

“I use mice that have had our gene of interest deleted. We got them in from a lab in the US,” said Yoshi.

“And I silence the gene in individual cells by adding things that stop that specific gene from being made,” Marshall continued.

“Fuck me! So you silence genes?” exclaimed Zach. “You silence motherfucking genes! That is so fucking cool! You must be fucking geniuses!” exclaimed Zach. He slumped back into the couch wide eyed and gobsmacked.

            Marshall shook his head. “This guy is,” he motioned toward Yoshi. “I’m still having a hard time getting my head around it all.”

            “Nah. Don’t be modest. You both are.” Alby stated matter-of-factly.

            Yoshi and Marshall stared at the ground embarrassed. Piers and Zach shook their heads in wonder.

            “Honestly, it’s just like following a recipe. Mix this with that, add this to that. Incubate for 30 minutes. Serve,” Marshall said after a pause. “The theory is a whole lot more complex than doing the actual work.”

            “Yeah, the lab work is the easy part,” confirmed Yoshi.

            Both Alby and Zach looked incredulous, unsure if this was an unusual joke. “Fuck…” was all either of them could say.

            The conversation paused for a while as each participant caught onto his own tangent of thought- Yoshi pondering the ethics of killing mice in the name of science; Zach marvelling at the ability of man to play god; Marshall hoping his explanations had been sufficiently succinct yet thorough; and Alby bubbling with excitement at the genius before him. A moth fluttered in ascending circles above their heads before tapping rhythmically against the suspended bulb, unable to reach that one thing eluding it.

Alby was first to break from his reverie. He looked at each of his companions in turn and declared that he was off to the toilet and whether anyone wanted another beer. All accepted, grateful for the break in the silence. Alby stood and squeezed between Marshall and Zach to make his way inside.

            “I can’t believe you silenced a gene,” Zach muttered.

            As Alby got to the door the two girls emerged, their brows glistened with tiny beads of sweat as they hugged Alby and congratulated him on his star turn earlier in the night. He giggled bashfully and thanked them before excusing himself. The girls surveyed the scenes around them looking for something to excite their mood and, spying Zach, made a beeline in his direction. It is unlikely that they even noticed the two other guys trying desperately not to stare at them.

            Zach was the golden boy of the scene. He was an athletic five foot eleven, although appeared taller by the assuredness with which he carried himself. His startlingly blue eyes, slightly hidden by unruly blonde tufts falling wherever they saw fit, possessed their own gravity. Most of the girls within the tight-knit scene held a flame for Zach and were unapologetically jealous of his girlfriend Donna. In their eyes his biggest flaw was that he adored her with a faultless loyalty, but even Donna had to acknowledge that she had to play second fiddle to Alby in Zach’s estimation.

Zach was the solid to Alby’s fluid. Ever reliable, unflappable and stable compared to his excitable and eccentric companion. Which isn’t to say that Zach was bereft of charisma or dynamism, or even that Alby lacked control or depth, but that the two accentuated each other’s qualities perfectly. Zach possessed the rare ability to bring Alby back to earth when needed, while Alby egged Zach on, excited him and devised crazy schemes for the two of them to cultivate together. They were inseparable. A week without seeing each other was too much to bear. They would be cast into a pit of despair and depression, bored and listless. They even took to listening to cassettes of each other’s voice when falling asleep, and not entirely with irony.

            “Hey Zach, why would you abandon us on the dancefloor like that?” reproached the brunette.

            “Everyone left. No one will dance with us”, said the redhead, a Kiwi accent tainting her speech.

            “I’m sorry. Alby dragged me away and wouldn’t let me leave. He tied me up so I couldn’t escape.”

            “Kinky.”

“Lucky you.”

            “Where are you tied?” The redhead leant over him to try to gain a better look behind the sofa, mischievously pressing her shelved cleavage against the side of his face. The boys looked at each other knowingly and smiled.

            “Aww, poor baby. Is Alby being controlling again? We’ll save you,” said the brunette, stepping around Zach’s legs and crouching down to get a better view from the other side. “Aww, you’re not tied at all!”

            “Why would you lie to us?” the redhead grabbed at his bicep, trying to pull his arm up.

            Zach curled his hand tightly around the bamboo strut running along the base of the couch as the short brunette tried to prise his hand open, her straight black hair brushing his thighs. The girls struggled against him, which only served to strengthen his resolve to hold on. Unable to budge his arm the girls dug their nails into the fleshy underparts of his elbow and wrist, before threatening to attack his one true weakness- his ribs. They weren’t about to play fair. Zach started to hyperventilate at the mere mention of being tickled and even before they started he was writhing in panic. The girls wanted their revenge for the heartache he’d imposed on them by not being single. It wasn’t that Donna wasn’t good enough for him, but rather that she was. And it annoyed the hell out of them. No one likes an over-achiever, even if they are one of your best friends.

            Zach retaliated by biting at any flesh that strayed too close to his mouth. The three writhed and grunted with effort and pain until finally Zach forfeited, releasing his grip on the rail in order to defend himself.

Once they had backed away, Zach brought his arm around in front of his face to inspect the damage. Rows of pink crescents were pressed into his skin, the odd one spotting with blood. He rubbed at them with his good hand and showed the damage to his assailants. They bit their lips and smirked as they inspected the marks on their own arms and shoulders.

            Marshall and Yoshi leaned against the banister throughout, polishing off the dregs in their bottles and shouting encouragement to whoever appeared to be losing at that particular moment. Once the saga had died down and they’d composed themselves Zach introduced them to the girls.

            “Hazel, Pilar, this is Yoshi and Marshall. Yoshi, Marshall, Hazel, Pilar.”

            Greetings and handshakes were made all around.

            “You guys really throw the greatest parties,” Marshall said with all sincerity.

            “Yeah, we like to think of ourselves as events managers. The boys give us a theme and a list of supplies, and we disregard it all and do whatever the hell we want. They really wouldn’t be as good otherwise.” Pilar stated this as fact.

            “So you’re to thank, then. Seriously, you guys really go nuts. It’s great,” praised Yoshi.

“Truly, it’s a gift.” Hazel curtsied her thanks; her red bangs shimmering against the side of her face as she allowed a coquettish smile.

            Despite everyone’s best efforts there was the general anxiety and awkwardness to their exchange that accompanies all introductions between new parties. The girls tried to be whimsical and amusing, while the boys just tried to not come across as nerds.

             “So, you’ve enjoyed yourselves, then? You haven’t found us too vapid?” asked Zach.

            “Oh, quite the opposite. It’s good to be around people that are so carefree for a change. A lot of the people we hang around are way too serious and almost always talking about business. It makes a nice change,” reassured Marshall.

            “Oh, some of us are always talking about business.” Zach tilted his head towards the group on the other side of the veranda. “And we all have our stressors. Anyway, it’s just a relief. I thought you would find us dull. Intellectually.”

            “No, not at all. You seem to always have something interesting to say.”

“So, what do you guys do?” Yoshi asked of the girls, trying to engage with them and keep them around to assess his prospects.

            “Oh, we’ve sort of chopped and changed over the years. We started out in the same performance classes as Zach and Alby. That’s how we know all these guys” said Pilar.

            “I dropped out after the first year,” said Hazel. “I decided the performance and directorial stuff wasn’t really my thing so moved into writing. I knew I wanted to do something creative; it just took some time to figure out what. I’ve always written stuff for my own amusement, and I really enjoyed the scriptwriting and devising aspects of the course, so I decided I’d try to make a go of that. I’m working freelance right now- trying to sell my stuff off to newspapers, magazines, literary journals. I’ve also started work on a novel, but it’s not yet at the point where I’ll tell anyone what it’s about, let alone let them read it.”

“I didn’t even know you had started!” Alby harrumphed into his chest as he passed around the beers and reclaimed his seat.

“Would we have read anything you’ve done?”

            “Haha, I doubt it. Not unless you read highbrow literary journals, the Christchurch street press, or trash and fashion mags?”

            “Can’t say that I do. Not that I can speak for Yoshi…”

            Everyone looked at Yoshi, who twiddled his thumbs and whistled out of the corner of his mouth. The others giggled.

            “So, what’s your story then?” Marshall turned to Pilar.

            “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I did uni with these guys, then was part of Zach’s theatre company. I’ve changed direction a bit since then though. I now design clothes for a store in Northbridge with a few friends. I also dabble in graphic design when I’m not cutting, sewing or tending to customers. I’ve decided I’m more about the aesthetics and process than the show.”

            “She made my codpiece!” Zach tapped at his bulbous crotch.

            “Ooo, fon-se. It really brings out your eyes, daaahling”, said Yoshi in his best exaggerated fashionista accent, gaining laughs from his peers and initiating a feeling of acceptance amongst the cool kids. A shiver of pride tickled up his neck.

            “Ja, ze sparkles reeeally accentuate the girth of your phallus and ze pertness of your balls,” Hazel said.

            Zach athletically bent and lunged, flaunting his crotch, thrusting it into his friends’ faces in turn. Pilar reached around his waist to caress his buttocks and simulated fellatio as he thrust at her. The others collapsed in hysterics.

             “So, what do you two get up to, then?” asked Hazel.

            Marshall stood with his fists clenched on his hips and head tilted to the sky. “We’re scientists!” he exclaimed in his best superhero voice.

            “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that!”

            “That’s… umm… intense.”

            Yoshi smiled humbly. “Not really. We’re just normal people. Honestly.”

            “Go on. Tell them what you do, Yoshi,” said Zach.

            “Well… we silence genes,” he said, embarrassed. He was scared of intimidating them and causing the conversation to fracture. He shared a nervous glance with Marshall.

            “Isn’t that the most awesome thing you’ve ever heard!” said Zach, clearly pleased to have been able to share in this revelation and help the boys along in their quest to keep the girls entertained. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and leaned back into the couch.

            “Yeah. That’s something, alright,” agreed the girls, shifting back in their chairs.

            “So, how do you do that? Do you ‘Shoosh!’ at them or something?” Pilar put her index finger to her pursed lips and scowling intently at the imaginary gene between them. She laughed as if seeking validation that what she had said was in fact funny and not just a trick of her mind.

            “Well that works too, but don’t tell anyone, it’s our secret. Everyone would be doing that if they knew how easy it was. Us nerds like to make things sound more complicated than they actually are to validate our own self-declared genius.” Yoshi smiled at the indulgent tittering of Marshall, before repeating his friend’s story from fifteen minutes previous. As Yoshi explained the science Marshall felt a sense of relief and a certain pride at having accurately explained their work. It reassured him that he wasn’t a fraud, but actually belonged amongst such esteemed company.

They sat in a cluster on the front porch watching the eastern horizon for the first signs of sunrise. They had swaddled themselves in blankets and robes from indoors and sat around sucking on a raspberry hookah. Donna stretched out across the couch to lean her head on Zach’s chest, while Pilar flirted with Alby on the other. Yoshi sat in the rocking chair with an unlit cigarette dangling abjectly from his lips and staring over the back of his head at the stars. Hazel and Marshall sat awkwardly alongside each other surreptitiously making eye contact.

            “So, what type of writer are you? What do you write about?” Marshall asked staring at the floor.

            “Oh, I dunno. Whatever’s on my mind at that particular moment, I guess.”

            “So you draw on your own experience, then. Cool, cool.” He grimaced at his stilted delivery.

            “I try messing around with style and structure quite a lot. I get bored writing the same way all the time. There’s no challenge to it. Like, in the past I’ve written realism, stream of conscious, hyper-descriptive, entirely in quotations,” she stopped a moment to remember herself, looking down at her fingers. “I suppose I just hate being tied down.”

            “So basically, you’re a wanker.”

            “Basically. I acknowledge it’s really quite self-indulgent. But I guess sooner or later I’ll have to tie myself to a particular style- my own personal style.”

            Alby sat up, captured by the direction he perceived the conversation to be headed. “She’s the biggest wanker you’re ever likely to meet.”

            “Yeah, like this!” Donna furiously pumped her fist up and down over Zach’s crotch as he tilted his head back, closed his eyes and moaned over and over “oh yes, yes, yes.” Alby and Pilar joined in the flurry of movement until at the right time Zach lurched into mock ecstasy and the three others mimed jizz flying all around the place- at his face and around the veranda. Zach wiped sweat from his brow and blew air out through his cheeks. “Woah.”

            Yoshi chuckled to himself as he lit his cigarette, concentrating on the first blue-grey tendrils rising from its end. “Well, that was unexpected.” He looked at Marshall and pointed towards Hazel with his cigarette. “You might be onto something, there.”

            Marshall laughed nervously, not entirely sure how he should take the comment. Hazel just smiled past them angelically. From the corner of her eye she caught Alby giving her the thumbs-up as he mouthed the words “Go. For. It.”

            Hazel glowered at him and, slumping back into the couch, crossed her arms and blushed a crimson to match her hair. Alby giggled, sparks bursting from his eyes. He was enjoying this scene- two of his friends being lovey on the couch, and another eyeing off someone new. And it was all happening right in front of his face. He wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass without throwing the odd banana skin.

Marshall timidly resumed his line of questioning. “So, ahh, what are you writing now?”

            “Short stories you mean?” She eyed him warily.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Umm, well I’m trying my hand at Noir, trying to fiddle around with the conventions a bit. Make it a bit more contemporary.”

            “Hahaha. See? Wanker!” Alby guffawed. Hazel shot him daggers, setting him off on a second burst of laughter.

            “So how are you doing that?”

            She cleared her throat, her eyes shifting back and forth. “It’s hard to say. It’s something that’s so ingrained in people’s minds that you have to be careful not to try too much for fear of coming off as a hack. I’m trying to be subtle. For instance I’m playing around with gender roles; instead of having a stereotypical private dick I’ve got a private cunt.”

Alby howled with laughter. Hazel and Marshall tried their best to ignore him.

“And I’m trying to turn the criminals into characters the reader has some sort of sympathy for. The story isn’t going to be black and white, but more greyscale.”

Alby clutched at his eyes. “It burns! The jizz, it burns.”

            Marshall failed to stifle a laugh at Alby’s antics. “Sounds, uh, interesting…” he nodded encouragingly.

            “Maybe,” she shrugged “I don’t feel I’ve got a particularly good handle on it yet. I certainly wouldn’t be about to send it out.” She spoke just as much with her hands as with her voice; gesticulating wildly to emphasise her thoughts. “I’ll probably abandon it and try something else. I’m not in a hurry. I have heaps of time to refine my style.” She sighed and played with the rim of her glass.

            “Aww, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you say,” Marshall encouraged. An awkward silence fell over them, and they diverted their focus to the sounds of Donna making her wine glass hum. “So, ah, who’s style do you like?”

            “Oh god, make it stop.” Pilar rolled her eyes.

            “Well, I’m kinda all over the place. Where to start… The classics- You read them and realise they’re classics for a reason. At the moment I’m reading a lot of magical realism. Marquez, deBerniers, Murakami.”

            “Murakami writes Japanese mystical stuff right? I think I might have read something. From memory I enjoyed it.”

            “It’s probably him then. I like all his stuff, though sometimes it feels like he doesn’t know how to finish a story. They sort of just peter out. Still, casting first stones and all that…”

“Stop…” Pilar and Alby had their hands clasped over their ears and were rocking back and forth as if in pain.

“Maybe I could borrow some books some time?”

“Oh you should!” Hazel exclaimed, ignoring her antagonists. “And F. Scott Fitzgerald. And Tim Winton. And Hunter S. Thompson. All classics.”

“I love Hunter S. Thompson!”

“How good is he!” she gushed. “He’s such an icon. Although I can’t stand it when other writers rip off his style. No one thinks they’re clever and they just come off as hacks. It really pisses me off. Try and come up with a voice of your own you useless fucks!” she yelled into the ether. The others fell back in raucous laughter.

Marshall was captivated by her passion. He was used to people keeping their thoughts and feelings bottled up, but here was a woman so overt in her opinions and prepared to express her thoughts without fear of judgement. It was inspiring to be around someone so free and open.

Pilar shook her head. “The one thing you’ll have to learn is to avoid talking to Hazel about anything remotely connected with writing. Once she gets on a roll, there’s no stopping her.”

“Apparently.”

“And the one thing you’ll have to learn about Pilar,” said Hazel chiming in, “is that she’s not the hardened cynic she portrays, but a frightened little girl scared of getting what she wants.”

“Ooo, cutting.” Pilar fidgeted, her veneer cracking ever so slightly.