The bagel shop was in the same block as Berkeley’s Breathing Institute. I smiled as I passed the recessed, glassed-in doorway. Ah, Berkeley, the city that trains you to breathe.
I remembered the year Elaine signed up for breathing classes. To stop her nagging, I’d agreed to give it a try and accompanied her to a session. About a dozen of us sat in a converted kindergarten classroom on tiny wooden stools—already a hindrance to good respiration, in my opinion—and chanted the vowel sounds, one after the other, using all the possibilities. Short a (aaaaaaaah, as when the doctor says, “Open wide”), long a, middle a, long e, short e, and so on. That had been enough for me, and I dropped out. It hadn’t been as easy to drop off the mailing list, however, and for several years I received invitations, on recycled paper, to their events and holiday parties. My favorite was the flyer inviting all to BREATHE IN THE NEW YEAR CORRECTLY!
I approached the bare-bones bagel shop at the same time as Phil, who was accompanied by a tall, white-haired man. I thought he was the same man who’d picked Phil up outside Bette’s diner on Saturday.
“Dr. Gloria Lamerino,” Phil greeted me. “Dr. Howard Christopher, my boss at Dorman.” Phil seemed enamored with the titles, nearly bowing when he uttered them, the way we used to bow our heads at the name of Jesus when I was a little girl in Sunday school.
“I’m glad to meet you,” I said. “Will you be joining us?” Over the odor of fresh bagels, I smelled a golden opportunity to quiz two Dorman employees at once.
“I’d love to,” Christopher said, “but duty calls.”
“Some other time,” I said.
Christopher pointed his index finger at me, in the gun-shooting position. “You bet.”
I almost “shot” him back but thought I’d behave, for the time being.
Neither Phil nor his clothes showed any signs of being affected by the heat. He wore a silver-gray shirt and a light blue jacket, the best-dressed person in the shop.
I’d pinned to my summer shirt a blue-and-gold seaborgium pin, a small replica of a block on the periodic table assigned to element 106, named after Berkeley’s Glenn Seaborg. Common ground, I figured. Who hadn’t loved Seaborg, Nobel-winning scientist and devoted educator? I was proud of myself for the gesture, honoring a chemist.
“Your bride has a flower crisis,” I told him.
He threw his head back and laughed. Elaine was right; he was handsome. “If it were up to me, we’d be married in a judge’s office and have dim sum afterward. But I’m happy to let her do what she wants.” Two points for Phil, I thought. His idea of a wedding matched mine, but he’d given in to my friend’s wishes. “Thanks for meeting me here instead of a place with cloth napkins,” Phil said. “Not elegant, but it’s close to Dorman. I’m on a short track for a deliverable.”
I translated mentally: My funding sponsor wants a report immediately, and I have no data. But I had to admit, Phil was charming.
“I love bagels,” I said, calling up my own charming side.
“Thanks for saying that. Elaine says you’re doing some teaching—I’ve thought about that, too. Maybe someday when I’m not as critical to these projects, when I really retire.”
Uh-oh, minus a point. As if teaching were not a valid career choice for the nonretired. I’d always considered it part of a working scientist’s responsibility to inspire youth … I turned off the recruiting brochure in my head. When would I stop trying to mold Phil and every other scientist into my picture of what they should be?
I settled for “Actually, I’ve always done volunteer work in the schools.”
Phil made a good-for-you gesture, with a wink and a nod.
Phil scored another point by noticing the book I’d brought, a new biography of Galileo. He’d already read it, he said, which added value. We chatted for a few minutes about whether the great Renaissance man sincerely recanted or pretended to, all the while using Church resources to further his own theories. A Galileo enthusiast in the family, so to speak, would definitely be a plus.
I was dizzy trying to keep score. One moment he was Phil the Charming—he’d shaken my hand warmly, laughed at my joke about Elaine’s flower crisis, and allowed me to rave on about Galileo. The next minute he annoyed me. Phil the Supercilious, making it sound as if he were too important to teach.
At least I could get something out of this bagel lunch, I decided. “I’m interested in your nitrogen work,” I said. “I like to be sure my Revere High classes are getting up-to-date material. Maybe you could give me a quick overview of your projects?”