CHAPTER 5

Confrontations

One of the three conference organizers had to take responsibility to open the symposium. That same volunteer had also agreed to make an announcement on behalf of the sponsor, the American Academy of Gerontologists. Agarwal is wishing that it wasn’t him. 

Ten minutes ago, a mullet-haired Gen Zer with gold ear-studs had introduced himself to Agarwal as the hotel’s IT expert. In that capacity, he has copied onto a flash drive the PowerPoint decks from the two speakers who will give their presentations before the coffee break. Both talks had been loaded onto the system’s PC, and Mullet Head had verified the setup, before taking “a break” with a promise of “I’ll be right back.”

Agarwal has prepared a slide to accompany his announcement. But he is devoutly Windows-averse. He insists on swapping out the PC for his Mac. It’s also a test-bed for his own research talk, later this morning. But his Mac won’t talk to the ZX-5000 digital podium. He triple-checks the input source, removes and reinserts cables, and restarts both his laptop and the projector. This failure to connect elicits unpleasant memories of growing up in the debris of his parents’ arranged marriage. Their frequent arguments had typically been followed by prolonged silences. Often for days at a time. And now he is dealing with yet another lack of communication. It is an unnerving situation. He is sorely missing the old days when setting up a presentation only required the skill to insert slides into a carousel the right way up.

Alone and exposed on the wood-floored stage, Agarwal wonders what length of time-frame is implied by “right back”. Five minutes? Ten? Can he avoid being blamed for these difficulties? At least his wife isn’t here. He knows exactly what she would tell his colleagues: he can’t work our smart TV. And it’s been installed for nine months.

He attempts what he hopes is a nonchalant survey of his audience. As yet, they are not betraying impatience, which brings him some relief. Mostly, they have corralled themselves into a meticulously arranged, four column grid of trestle tables, each seating three delegates. Scientists like to appear busy in front of their colleagues, so many laptops are open, and phones are at the ready. This facade will continue into the talks. Which is why a symposium’s buzz no longer references a palpable sense of scientific excitement. But rather, the vibrations that announce incoming emails and calls. 

The seating extends ten rows back, beyond which is a catering table where, noting signs of a delayed start, a small group exchanges some customary scientist-style pleasantries. I’m looking forward to hearing your talk (Subtext: I’m going to give you a tough time in the Q&A). I enjoyed reading your recent paper (you should be grateful that I was one of the referees). I’ve brought my postdoc with me, I hope you get chance to visit her poster (I want you to admire our latest data, and my astute recruiting). 

Notes of freshly brewed coffee and the sweet aroma of cinnamon waft around the room. Spilled coffee and juice, over the course of the next three days, will soil the white three-sided tablecloths that, for now, boujee up the trestle tables. Also expected to be sullied, by the time of the final session of the conference, is the quality of the talks. That is when speaking slots are typically allocated to the junior researchers, or those with the weakest presentational skills – or both. It is the graveyard shift.

The table that is reserved for the three conference organizers is at the center of the front row. Agarwal takes advantage of this proximity to assure his two co-organizers that the IT guy is returning very soon. Even though his optimism is undermined by the oversized digital clock on the right-hand wall. It ticks from 8:01 to 8:02. 

Agarwal fully appreciates why the organizer’s table is so close to the stage. It facilitates each speaker fulfilling an obligation at the start of their presentation: to make eye contact when expressing fulsome gratitude for the great honor to be among the prestigious list of speakers at this exciting and superbly-arranged conference.

The second coming! Finally! Mullet Head rematerializes from behind a plate of donuts. Agarwal attempts to convey the urgency of the situation without betraying the severity of his panic. He holds his arm over the unresponsive podium and jabs a pointed finger downwards. Mullet Head’s response is to approach the stage at a pace that implies he does not want to arrive. It is Agarwal’s aha! moment. He has read an article about this. GenZ have entered the workforce after a pandemic and economic turndown. Wages are stagnant and prices are rising, and what does overworking accomplish? More stress and less time for social life. So Agarwal suspects Mullet Head is not motivated by a boring job and the low pay, and is probably also pissed that working on a Saturday conflicts with his usual diet of streaming and gaming. 

As he finally steps from a teal carpet onto the stage, a sugary hand is wiped down the leg of his gray jeans. He shakes his head in disbelief at the age of Agarwal’s Mac, replaces a faulty dongle, and toggles on screen mirroring. “You’re all set,” he announces as he takes his leave, again. Agarwal thanks the back of his head, and finally opens the conference.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Agarwal Rakesh.” 

He estimates that he should be recognized by about half of the audience. The assessment is based on his three previous invitations to speak at an AAG meeting. A pity, he reminds himself, that he has just purged all of the most exciting data from his research talk. Not that a dull presentation will hinder future invites. Everyone he has invited to speak is obliged to return the favor when it is their turn to serve on the organizing committee. A conference payback that ensures a consistent caucus of speakers will feature at future meetings.  

A couple of these indebted delegates had also briefly thanked him the previous evening, when they had crossed paths on Bourbon Street. 

He had gone more as an observer than a participant, prompted by his friends at home having claimed that it’s all gone downhill. This disparaging viewpoint had enticed Agarwal to check out the area, so as to compare it with memories of his previous visit, fifteen years ago. He had passed through the bollards that pedestrianize Bourbon Street just before 8 pm, at its southwest boundary with Canal Street. The high that day had surpassed 80 degrees, which was unusual for mid-March. The warmth had lingered into evening, so Agarwal had been troubled by the extent to which young women underdress.

Throngs of inebriated visitors had been funneling through the narrow roadway in both directions. He had read somewhere that if you stand still for just one minute, over a hundred people will walk past. It would be a larger number, he concluded, if a normal walking pace were possible. 

It had been much louder than he had expected. Partly because voices elevated by excitement and alcohol had reverberated off the brick and stucco buildings that flank this narrow street. There had also been tap dancers, who had amplified their dance routines with shoes to which bottle caps or the bottoms of steel cans had been fixed. Plastic builder’s buckets had been repurposed as drum kits.

Each intersection had been guarded by either local police on horseback, or State Troopers with their distinctive brimmed hats and shiny cars. One of their policing accomplishments had been in the news the previous month. An arrest of a street hawker for disobeying a court order prohibiting public displays of an albino python. But had the rule of law been applied evenly? Agarwal had seen evidence that drug dealers still felt comfortable taking care of business on the side streets.

Last time he had come here, the street had offered a cultural harvest of vibrant blues and jazz joints. Now it is just invasive weeds: strip clubs, tacky T-shirt stores, and hole-in-the-wall bars where Agarwal had learned of a new social aspiration. Being photographed double fisting a pair of fluorescent high-alcohol cocktails: hand-grenades. 

The traditional parade of dishonor had been in full swing. Groups of young male revelers had leered over balconies, waving bead necklaces as supposed incentives to the female passers-by. Those unfamiliar with the custom would have learned quickly enough. He had heard one of these degenerates call out, “let’s see your tits!”.

Further along, another balcony versus street interaction had been in progress. Between competing groups of inebriated young men, naturally. “Come down here and say that”, those lower down had shouted, arms wide and beckoning. “How ‘bout you come up here,” had been the response from the higher-ups. It was all just bravado; a phony confrontation. 

That incident had been his tipping point. And it wasn’t only the pandemonium. He had also tired of being assaulted by the sulfurous odor of cannabis, the pungency of urine, and the earthy aroma of manure. It had become stressful dodging staggering drunks, discarded beads, and pools of fluorescent green vomit. All-in-all, Agarwal had concluded, a sordid theme park. A Westworld scenario, but without assistance from androids. By 9:30 pm he had been in bed, texting his friends. You were right. It is worse.

Eleven hours later, Agarwal continues his introduction to the assembled delegates. “Let me welcome you to N’awlins.” A handful of the local delegates offer appreciative nods to his pronunciation. “And also welcome to the first day of our symposium.”

Agarwal sees the doors are closing behind the last person to enter the ballroom. He glances at her hair, but quickly realizes he is unqualified to decide if the style might be inspired by Halle Berry. But in other aspects she fits the description Robbins had provided a few weeks ago: a white female, in her early thirties, and above average height. Also, there aren’t that many women to choose from. That could be Lydia. 

He is a little surprised she is less striking than he anticipates. Maybe because she is wearing muted tones? Beige pants and a matching jacket that is buttoned across a white, silk shirt. Her brown purse reminds him of one that his wife uses. He concludes that’s not surprising; his wife owns many purses. He observes that Lydia is nervously fidgeting with the handbag strap. He also wonders why she pauses to look around. Didn’t she tell me she wouldn’t know anyone here? Why does she seem so anxious? 

Agarwal continues with his introduction. “Before we begin the first session, I have been asked to make an announcement on behalf of the AAG.” In his peripheral view, Lydia walks towards a vacant seat about half way in. Just like being late to board an aircraft, only a middle seat is available.

Since Agarwal has a slide to exhibit, he taps a podium button with a promise. House Lights Dim. Black, wagon-wheel chandeliers, and color matched wall-sconces, all oblige by dimming in synchrony. A victory! A click on his pointer animates the appearance of bullet-points on the screen behind him.

“The Academy has created a sabbatical award. This initiative is a partnership with the Healthy Aging Research Institute in Green Bay, Wisconsin, where the honoree will enjoy the opportunity to perform their research, free of the constraints of teaching and administration at their home institute. 

“It is anticipated that the award process will be an annual event, beginning next year. It will be offered on a competitive basis. Self-nominated applications are encouraged. 

“The Academy’s administrative staff is working to post further information on the web. Probably before the end of this meeting. Applications for next year’s sabbatical will then be accepted.”

Hands shoot into the air like bottle rockets. Agarwal pleads for patience. “Due to our delayed start, I will only take a couple of questions. We should try to prevent the schedule from overrunning further.”

Without waiting for an invitation, a disdainful voice emerges from the third row. “Green Bay?” 

Agarwal establishes that there is an unruly mop of red hair in the audience, that is paired with a large, uneven beard. A blue and white plaid shirt is stretched tight across broad shoulders. Agarwal finds himself wondering how this person came to be separated from his felling ax.

“Has anyone counted how many snow-shoveling months there would be during a sabbatical year?” 

Is he expressing cynicism or is it a lame effort to be jocular? Agarwal cannot tell. Irrespective of the intent, the outburst has irritated a sturdily framed woman in a gray business suit. She rises quickly from her seat. Agarwal knows Grace. She is a senior researcher at the Healthy Aging Research Institute. His arm extends an invitation for her to speak.  

She has a theatrical voice that commands attention. “Let me offer some assurances to the gentleman who is rather intolerant . . .” The pause is for dramatic effect. 

“. . . of cooler climates.

“Maybe he is not aware that HARI is one of the top five non-profit research institutes in the country. Being awarded a sabbatical to work here would be an honor and a privilege. At any time of year.

“In Green Bay we no longer construct cabins from fallen trees. Our houses are all modern buildings which allow us to embrace many indoor luxuries. Such as heating. And running water. Both cold and hot.” Murmurs of amusement infect the room.

“Perhaps this is why Green Bay is the economic hub of Wisconsin.” 

Grace escalates the confrontation. “Our local community offers all of the necessary  services. Which even include a variety of hairdressing salons.” Unrestrained laughter bounces around the audience.

The target of Grace’s sarcasm refuses to react. He stares straight ahead. But even an excess of facial hair cannot hide a face that glows like a firetruck light. Embarrassment? Anger? Agarwal continues to be perplexed. What is this guy’s issue? He also glances again at Lydia. Yes, she is definitely distracted. Why is she so nervous? This is all getting very weird. But his more pressing need is to avoid burst blood vessels on his watch, so he brings the exchange with Grace to a halt. 

“As I just said, we are already behind schedule. We must now move on to our first session. It is titled Natural Products, Kinases and Aging. We will have five talks, with a fifteen-minute coffee break after the first two. Your chair will be Marie Beaumont from the Sorbonne.” 

Agarwal gratefully hands over the stage to the Parisian. He walks to the back of the room to pour some coffee. Which has now cooled. Bitterness has crept in. One quickly consumed cup proves insufficient, so he takes a refill. He knows the additional diuretic will stretch his bladder before the mid-morning break, but he is too caffeine-deprived to care. The second cup is carried back to his reserved seat in the front row.

Maria very briefly introduces Professor Riku Yamamoto, who slow-walks through a long introduction. His first slide displays a photograph of the alleged forty or so individuals that work in his Japanese lab, at least when they are not posing on the front steps of their shiny research building. If the goal is to inspire envy, it works for this audience. Seven is the average number of staff supervised by an American researcher. 

Agarwal knows from previous experience that the next slide will be a dense bibliograph, listing numerous papers published by Yamamoto in the very best journals. This is what Agarwal expects from a scientist who feels capable of winning a Nobel Prize: one who views their profession as an opportunity to collect trophies for others to admire. 

In any case, the size of Yamamoto’s research squad means there is much for him to say. After he completes the lengthy summary of his long and productive career, he launches into his more contemporary discoveries. Agarwal indulges in a pang of silent sympathy for Maria. In about half an hour, she will suffer a chair’s indignity of being helpless to enforce Yamamoto’s allotted presentation time. The morning’s schedule will be further delayed. 

Timing is also very much on Nick Robbins’s mind, as he checks out of his airport hotel. He expects to arrive at the conference around 9 am when, according to his program, the second of this morning’s talks will be in progress. 

Nick always appreciates the comfort of Todd Snyder stretch denim when he travels. However, his lightweight black jacket has been rendered superfluous by an overnight low of 65 degrees. It is draped over his arm. A collared shirt, with narrow, gray and white stripes, is open at the neck. He is wearing glasses, but for now they are switched off, to preserve the battery. A black computer bag serves as an overnight carry-on. One compartment contains yesterday’s shirt, underwear and socks, plus the necessary toiletries. 

“Mr. Robbins?” His taxi driver boasts three hundred pounds of muscle. Powerful arms protrude from a light blue T-shirt, darkened by pit-stains. A sturdy neck conveys the strength of a stone column. His head is shaved. Quite recently, Nick deduces, upon noticing the sheen of lubricant. 

“That’s me,” Nick answers, as he steps into the black Camry. He appreciates that the rear of the vehicle is clean. Although he notices that any passenger in the front would have to share a seat with an empty box of Dunkin’s. Nick provides the name of the conference hotel. 

“Sorry, I didn’t catch the destination. I don’t hear so well.” 

Nick pulls out his stapled printout of the conference schedule; the name of the hotel is on the front page, which he shows to the driver. “Ok”, is the curt response, as the car accelerates out of the hotel frontage onto Route 61, as if rejoining the racetrack after a pit-stop.  

The driver apologizes again. “I used to be NOPD. Undercover. Narcotics. I was in a shootout. Gunfire close to my face messed up my right eardrum.” 

The car weaves around the early morning traffic like it is still answering emergency calls to all available units. A driving skill, Nick hopes, that has been perfected by years of intense training. 

“My old headquarters were in the news this week. Superintendent complained about the rats.” 

Nick normally avoids small talk. It does not offer him control or self-aggrandizement. But he has watched some police dramas, and considers himself to be familiar with the vernacular. “I thought you guys liked snitches?”

They are approaching a left turn and the traffic light turns amber. It is a signal to go faster. A blur of airport buildings whizz by on the left. 

“Five stitches?” Through his reflection in the rearview mirror, Deaf Cop refuses to take any blame for the misunderstanding. “I never said she was bitten. And this Chief is a woman, not a guy.” 

Nick exhales loudly in frustration. This is an annoying reminder of why he typically avoids wasteful chitchat.

Deaf Cop either ignores his passenger’s sigh, or he doesn’t hear it. Either way, the summary of breaking news in New Orleans continues. “Rats have taken over the evidence room. Crapping on desks. Eating the drugs.” Nick imagines the possibility of a city infested with hallucinating rats playing out as a B-movie horror.

A right turn takes them onto a long on-ramp. They merge onto Route 10 through a maneuver that is uncomfortably close to a collision with a sixteen-wheeler. Nick wonders why his driver seems unperturbed by this near-death experience. Perhaps this fearlessness arises out of surviving undercover operations and participating in shoot-outs? You can either withdraw into PTSD or adopt fearlessness as your superpower? 

Nick’s thoughts are interrupted by a question. “What brings you to New Orleans?” 

“A conference. I work in academia.” 

“Oh, yes. I know about that.” Deaf Cop gives a dopey nod. “The blood disease.”

“Not anemia,” shouts Nick. “Academia. Like at a university. That’s where I work.”

“Oh, sorry. So, what do you study? If you don’t mind me asking?”

Cancer is very much in public focus. Two thirds of respondents to opinion polls have stated they worry about receiving such a diagnosis. Consequently, Nick expects awe and admiration once he explains that he is a very important scientist pursuing cancer therapy. This might be worth the effort. But best to dumb down the explanation to hearing-impaired idiot level. “I run a large science lab. We are studying cancer . . .” 

Deaf Cop’s phone interrupts Nick’s explanation. It is a call from Dispatch. Nick can only hear garbled static, but to his amazement, the driver’s good ear decodes the message and signals his agreement. “That works. The extra 15 minutes let’s me grab a coffee.”

This opportunity to extend a well-earned break adds urgency to the current assignment. Heavy use of the horn is directed at vehicles ahead of them that have the audacity to move at anything less than the speed of sound. 

“Science lab, huh?” Deaf Cop returns to his conversation with Nick. “You should take some of the rats of our hands. For your experiments.” 

The Camry navigates the 10/90 interchange, and passes by the Superdome. Nick is angry that his prolific research output has been distilled into a derogatory image of a nerdy scientist messing around with rodents. “We don’t use animals,” he responds, the words heavy with derision. “We only work with cultured cells.” It’s a lie, but that’s not the point. 

They shriek to a halt outside the conference hotel in the Central Business District. Nick sorts through his wallet to retrieve the exact payment for the fare. “My lab uses highly advanced technology.” He raises his voice again, to make sure the message is received. “You should too. You should wear a hearing aid. You might even learn something useful from your passengers.”

As Nick opens the door, he hurls more abuse. It is a very satisfying experience. “But even if you could hear properly, you couldn’t hope to understand the significance of my discoveries.”

For the first time, Deaf Cop acts as if he has heard every word Nick has spoken. “What I do understand is that you are a fucking pompous, high-and-mighty university type. You think you are so superior. Good fucking luck curing cancer with that attitude.”

Nick slams the door as hard as possible. The outcome of this confrontation pleases him. He has successfully vented his anger. He has also avoided leaving a tip, and belittled a dim-witted driver. Next up – Goode.

Armed with his recall of the hotel’s floor-plan, Nick strides confidently into the building, he passes the lobby, and follows the route that Lydia took, an hour earlier. He reaches the same annex, and climbs the stairs, two at a time, finally emerging into the staging area. Two women sit behind a registration desk. AAG office staff? They chat with a thirtyish male in a dark suit. Hotel employee? 

A bright light shines through a gap underneath the closed ballroom doors. Nick hears the end of a muffled statement from a member of the audience, and the Asian accent that responds. It’s that Japanese speaker, taking questions. The first talk is fifteen minutes behind schedule. Shit! Nick pauses to consider his options. 

“Can we help you?” 

Nick realizes that the inquiry from the direction of the registration desk has been prompted by his moments of indecision. This unwanted scrutiny might draw attention to his lack of a name tag. 

Applause signals the end of the Q&A. He just needs to purposefully delay for a minute or so, until the next talk begins. A handful of unclaimed lanyards on the registration desk catch his eye. He decides he will walk up to the table and pretend to be one of the missing male delegates. A hotel employee will have no reason to doubt him. The two women will be unfamiliar with the attendees. In any case, he can distract them with one of his charming smiles and good looks. They will blithely hand him a conference booklet, and cross the borrowed name off a list. Then, he will sneak into the meeting. 

Then he will revert to his original plan. He has learned how the ballroom seating is arranged from the pictures of a previous conference layout that the hotel has posted on-line. He is sure that everyone in the meeting, with their backs to the entrance, will pay him no more attention than they would to any late-arriving delegate. The unlikely possibility that Agarwal observes Nick in the audience has even been taken into account. He knows I’m not registered. He also did not approve of my plan to photograph Lydia. But he won’t dare to confront me while a talk is in progress. It would be too embarrassing.

When the end of the second presentation dissolves into the coffee break, Nick plans to approach Lydia in the entirely innocent manner appropriate for two colleagues renewing their acquaintance. He is sure she cannot anticipate his real intentions. 

Return to Chapter 4         Chapter 6 will be published soon.