Induced Charge

Starkwether became my reluctant guru. Not that he was any more partial to me than the first day we met; the rolled eyes, the shrugs, and the sighs betrayed the obvious fact that he considered me only slightly more intelligent than the planks of wood in his desk. It was all right. Every now and then, his frustration would become apparent; he would explain something for the fifth time, I would shrug, he would lose his temper and slam his hand into the whiteboard, I would yell at him, he would yell back, and he would (typically) shout me down. But it didn't matter that much. Despite his excessive temper and obnoxious ego, Starkwether was improving my grades, not just in physics, but in everything. He took a vicious red pen to my papers; as verbally skilled as he was mathematically, his revisions earned me many more A's than I was used to.

So I couldn't complain (too much.) I also discovered a certain facility with the tools he used in the lab, which seemed to please him, to the extent Starkwether could be pleased with anything I did. Sometimes, he would stop working to watch me while I finished some task, piercing me with the type of intent gaze that made me want to drop my tools, until I had done something he liked, at which point he would stand up, give me an affectionate pat on the shoulder, and slip me a hundred-dollar bill--even though I wasn't supposed to be getting paid. Sometimes I even thought he liked me--when he wasn't yelling.

It was for that reason--the hint of his approbation--that, when my parents suggested I stop working with Starkwether after my second or third A on a physics exam and the fifteenth or sixteenth time I'd complained about his attitude, I told them that I would stay with him and his lab as long as he wanted me.

I could see the worry in my father's face when I told him. "Sweetie, it really isn't necessary. I know he's really helped you, but if he's too much, we can find someone else."

My mother added her usual comments on the matter: "I agree. A good teacher is kind and forgiving, not just smart. Dr. Starkwether is obviously a poor teacher for you."

I sighed. "It's really fine, Mom. I yell at him more than I should, anyway." It's one of those relationships.

"That isn't the point. You shouldn't be sustaining any abuse from this man!"

"I really don't, he just gets cranky sometimes. That's all there is to it. I mean, he's always happy with me when I get things right. He can be nice."

My father snorted with laughter. "That's more than he ever does for me."

I shrugged. "See?"

"If that's what you want, feel free." My mother sighed. "You spend so much time there, though. I just want to be sure he's spending most of it teaching you physics and not working you to death."

"Oh, I always get whatever needs to get done done. That's our rule."

*************

The day after my frank discussion with my parents, Starkwether showed up late in the lobby; instead of his usual suit and metal clamshell briefcase, containing whatever he'd been doing before I came to see him, he entered in an untucked polo shirt and jeans, both rumpled, with nothing in his hands. His hair was disheveled, his beard untrimmed--and he looked altogether more gorgeous than I'd ever seen him. I always hated myself when I had thoughts about Starkwether, for the simple reason that I was positive of his total disinterest in me.

He didn't even bother to cross the room and walk me to the elevator, just waved me over and stepped back in, heading down to his office and lab. I seized my backpack as fast as I could and bolted for the elevator. With his typical eye roll, he held the door for me, but smiled wanly as I ducked in and dropped my bag on the ground.

A yawn. "Good afternoon, Chrissy."

"Hello, Dr. Starkwether."

Silence. The elevator rang, and we stepped out onto the fourth underground floor, walking to the office. He opened the door, pushed inside, and immediately sank down on the couch next to the whiteboard. My lesson from yesterday was gone, replaced by his own research. I briefly wondered if he'd gone home last night.

"Chrissy?"

"Yes?"

"Are you having a lot of problems with what you did today in class?"

"No, I think you're really helping--"

"Good. Okay. Then, today, before we look at anything, you're going to go into the lab and collate some of the pages I ended up printing last night, because I didn't print it right last night because I was tired. Ideally, you'll be done when I wake up. Now, I am going to sleep, because I worked through the night and I deserve a nap. Get to work."

With that, he rolled over on the couch and shielded his eyes from the light with one arm.

I had nothing to say, so I went into the lab and confronted the massive pile of paperwork that Starkwether had left on one of my tables, clearing off a mess of drill bits of varying sizes (the remnants of my most recent machine-shop lesson.) His angular handwriting and precise diagrams, scanned and reprinted as a hard copy--nothing less than triple redundancy would do for Starkwether's personal projects--littered the entire surface. I sighed. I would be here for hours.

Seated on the metal bench, I turned to look at Starkwether's sleeping body. The constant, furious energy that seemed to drive him had drained completely, and he was silent; there were no sarcastic remarks, no yelling, no cutting wit. I smiled. Surely he wouldn't mind if I took a quick nap, too.

I stretched out on the bench in as close an imitation of his comfortable position as I could and closed my eyes.