Miracle Man (17 page)

A nursing student, a friend of the mother, he presumed, did her best to clean him with the paper towels and bottled water she pulled out of a bag from a convenience store. With difficulty, she cut his umbilical cord with a cheap scissor. She triple-wrapped him from head to toe in a too-big bed sheet she had taken from the hospital where she studied. Only his doll-like face remained visible. His mother didn’t want to hold him or even look at him, and she didn’t seem to be in very good shape after the birth. The father—-well who knew who the father was anyway? The bedraggled young man who was standing there, shifting nervously, perspiration pouring out of his pasty face, wasn’t acting like the baby was his.

Kissing the mom on the top of her sweaty dirty head, the nursing student said her goodbyes quickly and exited. She left a baby bottle, two cans of formula and a few diapers.

The young man opened one of the cans of formula and poured it into the bottle. He held the infant the way the nursing student had told him to, and he gently tried to get the little mouth to open and accept the bottle’s nipple. Eventually, some of the liquid made its way into the baby. He looked at the tiny boy’s face trying to discern if he saw any resemblance to himself. He put the infant down on the concrete floor. He removed from the pocket of his rain slicker, a neatly folded 30 gallon triple-mil black plastic garbage bag. He opened the bag, shook it, and rotated his arms inside the bag to open it fully. He dropped the diapers, the half consumed bottle, and the other can of formula into the bottom of the bag. Hands trembling, he then picked the infant up, still wrapped like a mummy in the bed sheets the nursing student had affixed to him, and delicately placed him in the bag. It had only been a few hours since the child had been born.

“I’m going now,” he said to the mother, who lay motionless on her side. She didn’t reply.

Struggling to breathe in the stifling darkness of the garbage bag, a paralyzing sense of helplessness overwhelmed the infant. As the putrid odor of decay in the dumpster permeated the air, Bobby was jostled by the bloated bodies of scurrying rats slamming against the garbage bag in their frenetic search for an entrance point. He felt the wind and rain pelt and pull at the bag and threaten to dislodge it from its perilous perch, toppling him into the vermin ridden dumpster. Completely alone, he screamed.

Gasping for breath, his chest, face and hair drenched with sweat, his hands trembling, Bobby awakened from his night terror. Feeling like he was burning up with fever, he dragged himself into the bathroom, pulled off his clothing and lay naked on the cold bathroom floor, sweating and shivering simultaneously. Afraid he was going to pass out, he grasped the toilet seat, pulled himself up to a wobbly standing position and guided himself back toward his bedroom vanity where he grabbed a bottle of Vodka and gulped down half of it, searing his throat.

He gave up trying to sleep any more that night. In the darkness, he made his way on the mass transit system to Harvard. His head buried in his hands, he sat on the steps of Massachusetts Hall for four hours waiting for it to open. Finally, when it did, Bobby walked down the long marble corridor feeling an odd combination of despair and optimism. He pumped himself up.
They love me here. I’ve helped so many of the professors for so long. They won’t want me to go. They need me around. They’re not going to throw me out. I’m part of the family.

When Bobby entered Dean Winterthur’s office, the dean greeted him warmly.

“Hello Robert. You’re looking a bit under the weather. Are you feeling okay?”

Winterthur smiled without parting his lips. “Well, I understand you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Director Varneys.”

“Yes, and how do you know that, sir?” Bobby shifted from one foot to the other.

“He called me and told me, of course. Varneys isn’t one to beat around the bush.”

“And I assume then that he told you to cut me off?”

Winterthur walked over to his enormous Edwardian desk. Once comfortably ensconced in his high-backed burgundy leather chair, he motioned for Bobby to take a seat on one of the narrow wooden guest chairs which faced the desk. Bobby noticed that Winterthur had gained at least five inches in height relative to him since he sat down, as the desk stood on a platform. Winterthur leaned forward toward Bobby and thumped his forefinger against his desk as he spoke. “Robert, no one tells Harvard University what to do. Absolutely no one. We have the largest endowment of any educational institution in the world. That gives us independence, unlike our brethren at MIT, who are heavily dependent on government funding.”

Bobby smiled broadly. “What a relief. I’m so happy I can continue here.”

Winterthur’s New England patrician face was expressionless. “I didn’t say that. I said that Varneys doesn’t tell us what to do. We decide
.
But nevertheless, with great regret, Harvard must withdraw its support.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s the correct thing to do under the circumstances. Harvard has been associated with the Institute for over thirty years. You came to us via the Institute. It would be disloyal of us and a slap in the face to the Institute if we purloined you. Frankly, it would be dishonorable.”

His face flushed, Bobby shook his head. “Do the professors here whom I’ve worked with agree with you?”

Winterthur leaned back in his chair. “That’s irrelevant. I haven’t discussed this with them, nor would I. They don’t run this institution, I do.”

“Dean—putting aside the Byzantine politics —-do you know why Varneys is cutting me off—did he tell you?”

“He said that you refuse to support the Institute’s research goals.”

“And did he explain that the goals of the Institute are limited to military and aerospace applications, and that I want to devote my energies to disease research?”

“Robert, that’s beside the point,” Winterthur said, waving his hand dismissively.

Bobby grew rigid. Glaring at Winterthur, he said, “With all due respect, dean, I think that is the point. I would have hoped that this university would put world health above placating the ego of a narrow-minded bureaucrat.”

Winterthur’s face turned Harvard crimson
.
“When you’re twenty years old, Robert, things are black and white. But that’s the illusion of youth. I’m very sorry to disappoint you, but I have no doubt you’ll find your way. It’s been a privilege to have known you, and for that I’ll always be indebted to the Institute. I hope that your memories of your time here at Harvard will be positive.”

Bobby remembered how Varneys had laughed at him when he said he had supporters who would stand behind him. Sitting in front of him was a man he had known since he was seven years old. The same man who had broken the news to him that his parents had died and who had held him while he wept on the floor of Jefferson Hall. The same man who had trotted him out and put him on display innumerable times to important alumni, contributors and visiting scholars. The same man who had listened to Harvard’s most renowned professors expound on his talents after he had fixed errors in their work so that they could receive accolades on their publications. Bobby sat silently for several minutes, his fists clenched, staring icily at Winterthur. Feeling the intensity of Bobby’s gaze, Winterthur shifted uneasily in his oversized chair.
Discarding me is just one more task on his “to do list”. No doubt, he’ll be on the phone to Varneys within sixty seconds after I walk out the door.

Bobby rose from his seat. “One day when you, or your wife or one of your kids fall ill with a disease that should have been cured thirty years ago, call your friend Varneys—see if he can help you
.
That’ll be a good time to commiserate with him about the priorities of the Institute and your own judgment. When that happens, remember what took place here today. Goodbye, dean.”

25

N
avigating through Harvard Yard for the first time as an outcast, Bobby was in a daze. He felt dead and invisible. There was life around him but he wasn’t part of it. His home and all the people in his support system had been taken away. He could hear Varneys snarling to Uhlman, “I’ll bring the Austin kid to his knees. I’ll starve him out. He thinks he’s such a know-it-all, you’ll see. In a few weeks, he’ll be begging to come back on my terms. And then we’ll have him for good.” As despondent as Bobby was, these thoughts strengthened his resolve. “I’ll sell hot dogs on the street before I let Varneys win,” Bobby muttered to himself.

He walked through Harvard Gate into the bustling streets of Cambridge and was jostled by people who were alive and determined, moving briskly as they chatted animatedly. Wandering aimlessly for several hours, his mind was reeling in despair. Eventually, he realized that he had walked miles and was now in the worst part of Boston. This felt right to him. He was ready to lay his fate at the feet of the gods. He contemplated how good it would be to be mugged. To be killed, quickly and dispassionately. To be released. No more nightmares. No more fears. No more loneliness.
Everyone who ever loved me is dead.

As he walked down a narrow side street in Dorchester, he passed several ratty bars that advertised their cheap beer prices on hand-written signs taped to their windows. Farther down the street, he saw a large flashing pink neon sign that featured the silhouette of a woman and the words “Pussycat Lounge,” alternating with “Nude Dancers.” Bobby had never been to a strip club, but now seemed like the right time. Walking up to the shabby
windowless clapboard building, he opened its heavy door. “Five bucks to get in, two drink minimum. Keep your hands off the girls,” said the bouncer.

Bobby was patted down roughly and directed toward the ticket office, which consisted of a small booth manned by a middle-aged woman with decaying teeth who was shielded from the customers by a pane of glass. After sliding his five dollars through the slit in the bottom of the glass pane, Bobby walked through an old metal turnstile.

The club’s walls were painted black and the maroon carpet on the floor looked so filthy that Bobby made a mental note that if anything fell out of his pockets, he wasn’t picking it up. The room was dimly lit, which all things considered, was a wise interior design decision. A large central bar was surrounded by a U-shaped counter. Behind the bar, there was a stage that was backed by a mirrored wall which was badly smudged with hand prints. A few spotlights hung precariously from the ceiling and a brass stripper pole was positioned at each end of the stage.

Taking a seat at the U-shaped counter, Bobby ordered a bourbon, which was served in a flimsy plastic cup like the ones next to water coolers. Only five other customers sat at the counter. The nubile dancer worked the pole perfunctorily, performing her routine with disinterest, as she glanced out at the almost empty room. And then, to Bobby’s surprise, he came to understand that the counter at which he was sitting was a runway. Taking turns, the strippers who weren’t currently performing on stage, would climb onto the runway and walk along it in their spiked heels, their hips rolling in an exaggerated motion, pouting all the awhile, and wearing nothing more than stockings and a thong. They would stop for a few moments in front of each seated patron, throw a few provocative moves, and crouch down to engage in some light banter. Bobby quickly learned that protocol dictated that the customer give each of the ladies a dollar or two tip, depending on the enthusiasm displayed by the dancer. The ladies were casual and uninhibited and accepted the modest tips with gracious acknowledgment. Bobby experienced a new found appreciation for the value of American currency.

“Hey, honey. Come with me to the VIP area and I’ll give you a private dance.”

“How much does that cost?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

“Oh, that’s way out of my budget, but thanks anyway. I’m sure it’s worth it,” Bobby said.

He found it ironic that a club this down and out, matched by a clientele of equal stature, could have anything that deserved to be called a “VIP area.” Nevertheless, as Bobby continued to drink bourbon after bourbon, he decided that strip clubs were one of the greatest inventions on the planet. Six bourbons later, he was pondering
who—what incredible genius—had first conceived of the strip club? Did the same person also invent the concept of the VIP room and the ‘private dance’? Did this person ever get the public recognition that he or she deserved?
Bobby felt humbled in the shadow of such greatness. “
Now that person was smart—-seriously smart.”
The combination of ninety proof liquor and barely clothed exotic dancers on a runway inches away from him was having an ameliorative affect. He was calming down. He could think. And then, as a voluptuous lady, with derriere displayed to maximum advantage, was trying to convince him to explore the pleasures of VIPdom with her, it came to him like an epiphany. “I know what to do,” he exclaimed to her. “Tufts. That’s it. Tufts.”

“I not tough. I be gentle. Do you have a girlfriend? Come to VIP with me, and I be your girlfriend.”

“No, no. I didn’t say you were tough. I said Tufts. Tufts University. That’s what I have to do.” Bobby gave the lady two dollars and thanked her for the inspiration.